


Stormborn

by Thesuncameouttoday



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A touch of Midsommar in Westerosi setting, Bamf dany, Character Study, F/M, Family of Choice, Fix-It, Making up & Making out, More angst than there are characters in asoiaf, Motherhood, Nihilism is grossly overrated and I’m (thankfully) not a white man, Sad Boy Jonny, Sisterhood, So chins up lil pups, Struggles of Leadership
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-02-18 13:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 76,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18700567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesuncameouttoday/pseuds/Thesuncameouttoday
Summary: Mother of dragons.Daughter of death.Slayer of lies.Bride of fire.If I look back, I am lost.





	1. But never for a queen

**Author's Note:**

> As the sun kisses the horizon Dany reconnects with her most trusted advisor, and dearest friend.

“Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest boy ever?” Dany cooed; eyes glassy with amazement at the mass of white fur wagging his tail in front of her. Ghost tilted his head endearingly to the side, as she believed he did whenever he understood what a human was saying. Jon did the same action so many times before she’d met his wolf, that when she saw him mirror the movement all she could do was chuckle, heart clenching at how pure the pup was. 

Dany sunk her fingers into the fluff by his ear, hearing him rumble when a finger scratched him. She looked down at his form, so big that if he stood on his hind legs he’d be a whole person-taller than her. “Did you eat already?” Ghost looked up at her question, tongue wagging and lethal teeth displayed when she saw chucks of meat around the fur of his mouth, making her giggle. She scratched him some more before they walked towards her bed, face scrunching to tease him. “Oh, somebody had a feast today then?” 

The direwolf nudged his face into the thick clothe of her dress, wet snout pressing into her belly as he so often did now. Dany sighed at his head plopping onto her, palms sinking into that soft fur that rendered her feeling sleepy and safe. 

It had taken her only a week to know that Ghost may be the most loyal creature to ever live; so ferocious, yet so gentle. She wasn’t foolish enough not to remember that he’d once bitten the throat right out of a man when he’d felt Jon’s anger, their bond something unearthly. 

But she understood that connection more than others. That fierce pride and ease Jon felt peering down at Ghost so similar to how Dany felt seeing her son’s wings cover the sun above. Some may not understand that relationship, that connection with an animal that went beyond words and action because it was all about the heart and brain. Only a few were privileged enough to earn that kind of trust from an animal, and Dany was more than gleeful at the notion that she’d earned it from yet another beautiful creature, that too Jon’s trusted partner. 

Dany almost closed her eyes as she laid on top of the bed’s furs, the frustrating day filled with even more uncooperative lords building this overall atmosphere of dread within Dany when she stepped into the Great Hall. It was tiring, it was so tiring trying to convince people who refused to change their mind or even listen, for that matter. It was even worse when they were the people of the man she loved. 

Though it may sound almost girlish, Dany had actually been waiting eager to reach Winterfell for one reason only; she wanted to show Jon just how good she was with people, how once convinced, they became loyal and supportive for her causes. The thing was, as Dany thought in hindsight, that before when she was obtaining support from people, it didn’t take too long because she provided justice and safety for those who needed it. Prejudices and status did not matter for them. 

These…Northerners were set in their ways however, believing fully that there’s no need for a revolutionary as herself. They built walls so thick and tough that even with all of Dany’s willpower she wasn’t able to melt even a speck off, only making herself become worked up and exhausted in the process. 

_How will I possibly rule a nation, where half the people believe that they have no need of me, that there is no reason to unite kingdoms together?_

While Jon had warned her several times-mostly teasingly- that they were a stubborn lot, she hadn’t taken into account of this convoluted concoction of traumatic history that had hardened them far too much for any softening. 

How could she possibly convince a group hell-bent on not bending their ideas, that she wasn’t a threat, rather a person just there to help? 

How could she do that while also not falsely making them believe that she didn’t want their loyalty and support in exchange?

Dany sighed, peering over to the side to see Ghost’s perked ears, red eyes watery and warm as they gazed upon her. She scuffed below his chin, almost giggling at his rumble of pleasure. 

A knock on the door jolted Dany up, heart spiking at the thought of Jon on the other side. Her heart ached to see him, to at least spend a mere hour just in his arms. 

She rushed towards the door after brushing her hair, composing herself before swinging the door open. 

“Your Grace?”

Jon Snow was a forgot man when the sight of those soft brown curls came into her line of vision. Missandei smiled up at her with her soft eyes and kind features, waving Grey Worm away before she turned back towards her. 

“Can I come in?” she asked. 

The bubbling of relief and comfort slowly dwindled within Dany as she inspected Missandei’s face closer. And the closer Dany looked at her dear friend’s face, the more her own mouth turned down into a frown. She looked troubled, almost nervous and angry at the same time. 

Dany nodded quickly, ushering her in with a furrow of brows. “Yes, of course,” she murmured after closing the door shut. 

“Is everything alright?” Dany asked softly, pulling Missandei by the arm into a seat by the hearth. They hadn’t been able to speak properly in moons, what with Jon arriving to Dragonstone and leaving for King’s Landing. Dany had been aching to spend just a few moments of solace in her best friend’s arms. 

Missandei curled into her seat, pulling her legs underneath her with the grace of silk caressing a wall. 

Her mouth opened; confliction clear on her face before she shut it closed. The look alarmed Dany, seeing her friend in her charcoal grey coat, playing with a stray string, hesitation that had never occurred between them before too prominent and suffocating for her heart to not beat a little faster. 

“Missandei?” she called out again, making sure to let the words come out softly. Clearly, she was distressed, and Dany didn’t feel right poking it out of her. Intrusiveness was one ugly characteristic that had never existed in their relationship, and it hopefully never would. 

Missandei suddenly met her gaze after minutes of straying off to look at random object, the sudden flare in those normally honey-brown irises causing Dany’s breath to hitch. 

She sat up in her chair suddenly, mouth in a straight line. “I don’t think they like us.”

Dany’s brows furrowed. “Who?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. 

“The Northerners,” Missandei replied curtly, a snap of frustration drenching her every word. “They don’t like us, us meaning the ones with “tainted” skin.” There was a certain mirth to her words that had never existed before, and a part of Dany died at the thought that she had germinated that new ugly attribute onto her sweet Missandei. Yet again, the seeds of doubt ever-growing doubt within her mind, about coming to this dreadful land of barren solitude caused such a bloom of worry and almost regret to spear her heart.

“Ah,” Dany nodded miserably, “so I’ve noticed.”

Missandei huffed suddenly, fingers digging into the arm of the chair. Her mouth parted with each ragged breath, eyes manically shifting through the room. “It’s just-” she bit her lip. Suddenly she was up on her feet, dark wool dress swishing as she began pacing. “They don’t even know us, and they look at us with this disgust and loath.” The shoulders that had risen because of her palms being set on her hips drooped with a crush of woe. 

She looked defeated when she met Dany’s stiff and pained features. “Why do they hate us so much?” she asked simply, the weight of it causing such a sting to envelop Dany’s throat. 

It was there for only a second-not even- more like…half a heartbeat, but in the split window of terrifying molasses-like time Dany felt this raw, unadulterated, hot desire to spew fire and blood onto this dreadful lot of individuals. 

The moment the thought brushed her soul, it evaporated into tiny specks, blowing into the wind because of its poison; yet, it still caused her to become a little breathless. Dany’d never do it in a million years, try and try these Northerners might, she’d never become what they all secretly desired of her. 

It would be too easy, too much giving towards them. 

She nodded, because that was all she could honestly do. She wanted to protect her people from the harms of the cruelty and prejudices that came within the messy tangle of saving the North, but it was as likely to happen as the Moon cracking open.

Diplomacy was unfortunately considered the only conventional tool for dealing with these sorts of issues, but when had Dany ever been a conventional person anyways? 

So, she inhaled deeply, softening her features and focusing her eyes as she rose to join Missandei’s side. 

“Tell me everything they’ve said.” Dany requested her friend, tugging her soft palm into her own rough hand. Her throat rumbled with the effort to contain her anger as she spoke, softly but dangerously. “I can’t have people disrespecting you, or any of my people.”

Missandei watched her, a fraction of hesitance making her dance around a solid answer. “They haven’t _said_ anything really-”

“So, what have they done?” Dany asked darkly. 

“They-” Missandei’s lips pursed with contemplation, “they never sit near Grey Worm and I in the Great Hall.” She muttered almost like a question, before adding on quickly. “And they never speak really. More that…everyone and everything seems to go silent within rooms seconds after we step inside. It’s like they feel believe that if they stay quiet enough, we’ll vanish before they have to put in any actual semblance of effort towards human interactions with us.”

The thought had occurred within her mind many moons ago in Dragonstone. If people in Westeros could spit on her for having just lived in another country, being born in said country would lead to a sort of response that didn’t swallow well for Dany. Why was it, that when humans faced the unknown their first response was always disdain and hostility? 

Dany grasped Missandei’s hand a little tighter, a sudden thought making her almost paralyzed with fear. That hostility often transformed into violence; Dany knew from experience. Her forehead creased, lips trembling with trepidation. “Missandei?” 

Her friend wasn’t looking into her eyes, and the notion amplified her worries even more. Dany placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to meet her violet eyes. “Tell me…have they tried anything else?” The seconds between her question and Missandei’s response caused a flux of nerves to wrack within her. 

“No,” Missandei answered quickly, knowing full well how quickly Dany’s devastation would spiral if she believed it to be true. She shook her head with a frown. “They’ve never gotten near enough to me to seed that thought anyways.” 

“Good,” Dany murmured astutely, relief like a cool wave lathering over hot sand. Her hand curved around Missandei’s arm, soothing circles bringing them both back. “We’ll talk to Jon and Lady Sansa about this tomorrow, alright?” 

Missandei pursed her lips. “Do you really think they will be able to help?” Her voice was twined with doubt. 

A defensive spark almost ignited within Dany, surely Jon would try cooling over the tension between her troops and his, right? He had never shown any animosity towards her people before, and she firmly believed he’d prevent others from doing anything otherwise. 

Dany nodded, smiling through her hopelessness. “I trust Jon,” she spoke softly, shyly. 

“What about Lady Sansa?” Missandei asked, frowning. “She doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

“No,” Dany murmured, looking away with the hope that her sting of disappointment wasn’t revealing, “she doesn’t.” 

Call it silly, or even childish, but Dany had hoped Sansa and her would be instant companions. Such similar journeys could only lead to a great friendship, right? Jon had raved about his siblings so much on the boat, that she foolishly believed that if they were even a fraction of a reflection of Jon, they’d get along with her for once. The hope had died out pretty quickly when she took in the way Lady Sansa eyed her along with the way Bran watched her with impassiveness. 

_I am a queen,_ she reminded herself, _not a young girl._ Frivolities like friendship could not be her goal. 

She caught Missandei’s empathetic stare, too knowing for her own good. Dany cleared her throat, “Jon will convince her, he’s good at it. And if he can’t…I believe we are in for a rough few days, my friend.”

She didn’t miss Missandei’s lips quirking as she teased gently, “I believe he convinced _you_ very well.” It cut through the tension, if only for a moment, making them both giggle, Dany flushing at the notion. 

She had failed almost embarrassingly at hiding their relationship from her friend, maybe the longing stares too obvious for her observant eyes and sharp mind. In the moment though she hadn’t cared enough to lather on the proprieties, those days on that ship being some of the happiest moments of her existence. It had been a while since her heart had felt so light. 

Dany drooped defeatedly onto her bed after a moment, head hitting the surface with a bounce before Ghost’s soft furs tickled her palms. She peered down to see his wet snout nudging her palm, a soft whine echoing throughout the room.

She felt the bend dip as Missandei laid beside her on her hip, head held up by the one arm pressed into the mattress. Her other hand snaked across the mattress to grab Dany’s, interlocking their fingers as she watched her sigh sadly. 

“How will I ever be able to rule this nation, Missandei? Where the people I trust the most are considered the enemies of the people I am convincing? Where they are not respected?” 

If the citizens were at the throats of the Dothraki and Unsullied in these calamitous times, what would happen when their minds were not occupied with the threat of White Walkers? Was it even right of her to make them stay in these lands that they were not accustomed to, alongside the unwelcoming faces? 

_Would I be any different than leaders before, if I put another sort of chains around people I’ve freed?_

The first time the notion had entered her mind was when her miniscule Khalasar had first stepped onto those ships from Qarth; sick to their stomachs and faces miserable. The guilt in those moments had ridden through her for a while, making her question whether or not it was just to pry them away from their land, for a war that wasn’t even theirs. 

“I don’t know,” she confessed simply, honestly, as she always did. Her thumb ran circles across Dany’s palm. “But I know you’ll figure it out some way.” 

Dany turned to face her, heart clenching at the earnestness on Missandei’s face. “You really think that?” her voice was so soft, childlike. 

Missandei nodded, smiling genuinely for the first time that day. “You have made bigger miracles happen.”

~

Missandei ended up falling asleep on Dany’s bed, curling around Ghost who had begun warming up to her as well after they caught up under the moonlight. The sight of her so calming, like the sun shining onto thick green leaves, like fat droplets of cool rain sinking into her skin. 

Dany absentmindedly ran her fingers through one of Missandei’s coiled strands when sleep evaded her, the hair popping off her index finger with a gentle tug. She didn’t want to think of the reason why sleep hadn’t come to her in days, maybe because of the dull pain in her forehead... or perhaps she didn’t want to think her growing dependency on the raven-haired man. 

She wondered how Missandei coped sometimes, being in love with someone so hellbent on sacrificing himself for others. At least Jon had troops around him when fighting, Grey Worm _was_ part of the troops that did the surrounding. Jon was a King, a known hero. Stories of his adventures would be whispered through generations. 

Would anyone remember the pure-hearted Grey Worm, who had become spellbound with one of the most intelligent beings to ever live? How resentful would Dany’s dear friend be of her if the man she had just fallen in love with were to be taken away in a battle where death was not even the end, the last journey before shutting his eyes for good? 

_I can’t lose her too._

Sometimes she even felt jealous of Missandei and Grey Worm. Though burdened with the fragility of death, they were still free in so many ways. Rules, tradition, status and other benign aspects of being leaders didn’t prevent them from jumping into each other’s arms, from seeking solace in the darkest times. 

Often, she wondered how their life would’ve been had Jon and her met without the names and titles; just two young beings, falling in love through the dances of speech and heated eyes. 

And while the hearth’s flames died off into the late night, and the winds and ghosts began dancing at the towering full moon, Dany whispered a promise to herself as she watched her friend, her most trusted advisor and companion’s peaceful face during a dreamless slumber.

_I will take you to Naath dear Missandei, when this is all over, I will take you home._

 


	2. A blue winter rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your name is  
> the strongest  
> positive and negative  
> connotation in any language  
> it either lights me up or  
> leaves me aching for days
> 
> -rupi kaur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and contemplation...but mostly fluff.

“Jon,” Dany huffed, breath ragged from anger. She wanted to be alone, to scream into a pillow to extract all this pent-up frustration within her that's emanating through her throbbing head. 

She had been attending yet another gathering in the Great Hall a mere hour ago and consequently she needed the time of peace afterwards. The Lords’ complains and worries were becoming more redundant than ever, and in all truths, Dany felt like they were going in circles. 

Yet again she’d attempt to delineate her reasons for needing Jon’s loyalty, and once more the men would pipe up more reasons to believe she had motives otherwise. At some point she’d have to give up, knowing that is was futile attempting to arbitrate with individuals hell-bent on standing their ways. 

All the arguing and dissent was not only exhausting, but disheartening. Little had she known that Jon had noticed her sour mood quite quickly. 

And instead of sulking in her chambers, she was being pulled by the arm through hallways hastily, a silent Jon hushing her protest every few seconds. 

“Jon!” she repeated, this time standing her ground and halting her steps. He jolted from her sudden strength, almost toppling over before turning to face her with a look of shock. He sighed, eyeing the two hallways between them for intruding eyes before placing his palms on her face. 

Dark warm eyes watched her softly, brows curling at her scowling face. Damn him and his gentle eyes. 

“Trust me,” he murmured, his hot breath fanning her face. Dany tried standing down, she really did…and of course she failed. She softened, as she always did around him, hunching over. 

Jon seemed to take that as an acceptance, smiling sweetly before he continued lugging her around the castle before they finally reached their destination. 

Dany’s eyes widened in amazement as she looked up at the sparkling structure, the sun reflecting warmly against the clear glass. It was an almost dome-shaped building filled to the brim with plants and flowers, the sight to serene she had to gasp. 

“What…is this?” she managed to fumble out, mouth gaping at the shock of colour blooming among the greys of Winterfell. 

Jon leaned against one of the walls, grinning as he watched her amazement with warm eyes, his head resting against the surface lazily. “Come,” he said instead of explaining, pulling her under the glass by clasping their hands together. 

A wave of instant heat washed over her when she stepped inside the garden, a concoction of scents mixing fresh produce and flowers a stark contrast to the heavy scent of wood and candles engulfing the walls of Winterfell. 

She watched the humidity of the closed area cause droplets of water to roll down the sides of walls, colliding into fat puddles into the corners of the floor. The streaks were mixing with the dark soil to swirl across the floor in circular patterns till they sunk into the wooden floor.

And instantly it became her favourite place maybe in the world. 

Jon tucked her arm under his as they walked, slow and calm. “This is the glass garden,” he said after a few moments, sighing softly. “It used to be much much bigger actually.”

“What happened to it?” she asked curiously, peeling her eyes from the beauty in front to watch him. There was a certain sadness in his eyes, the kind that usually came after reminiscing painful memories. 

He ducked down to peer at his feet, unintentionally squeezing her hand in his. “Ramsey Bolton happened.”

“Oh.” Dany fell mum suddenly, wincing at her bad memory. He’d somehow gotten the strength to tell her the horrendous story a while back, eyes watery and lips quivering as he spoke quietly. How could she have forgotten? 

Not only had that vile man destroyed their home, but he had abused Lady Sansa and their adopted cousin Theon. Though Jon barely broached the latter during his recounting, mentions of the man’s name still causing his body to stiffen, he did briefly explain Lady Sansa’s traumatic relation to this Ramsey Bolton. It had caused her own body to throb with panic, sudden flashes of hands painfully grabbing her arms making her winded and shaky. 

Though she barely knew Lady Sansa, an almost sisterly-pride had rose within her when Jon ended the sad story with how the man had met his demise. 

_“Good,”_ she had whispered against the skin of his shoulder as he stared ahead with a troubled expression, _“men like him deserve only such ghastly ends.”_

Dany pursed her lips, hesitant to interrupt his brooding for once. “I-I’m sorry for that.”

Jon looked at her all of a sudden, face shifting at her sorrow-filled look. “It’s not your fault Dany,” he said after taking the effort to smile. He brought her hand to his lips, pecking right on her knuckles. “Don’t apologize.” 

He tugged her close, now smiling genuinely. “And anyways I didn’t bring you here to think about sad stories.”

“Oh, so why was I brought here?” she asked teasingly, hands clasping around his shoulders. She bit her lip before standing on her tiptoes, pecking him shortly. The action was childish and dangerous and something she never had had the privilege to afford, making her heart flutter. Nowadays she found herself doing such risks more and more around him. 

“Dany,” Jon gasped with wide eyes like a gossipy maiden who’d heard a scandalous story, “what will the Lords say?” 

She rolled her eyes. “They can go fuck right off, for all I care.” She kissed him again in retaliation; longer and harder. 

His nose scrunched when they parted, lips letting out a soft chuckle as he watched her with amusement. “I don’t think I’ve actually ever heard you use profanities before.”

“Oh Jon,” she tisked as he gathered her flush against him, just the way she liked, “you don’t know half the things I can do.” 

Her magic worked, for his eyes darkened suddenly before he growled into her mouth. His soft lips and flavour were addictive, hazing her mind to do more dangerous things that she’d ever considered doing before. 

He pulled away with a groan, taking two big steps away from her while his face winced with pain. “I don’t think people seeing me make love to you in a glass room will help our case really,” he sighed, eyeing her from head to toe heatedly. 

The notion made her giggle like a green girl, the anger of a few moments ago vanishing with every beat near Jon. She didn’t know how he did it, how he had this almost sorcerer-type power to distract her even in the direst of times, but she was grateful for it every day. 

He stuck out his hand for her, nodding her to come near. “I’m bringing you close to walk,” he warned sarcastically. When she was leaning against his arm, stumbling around the plants he murmured, “Do you want me to actually show you why I brought you hear?”

Dany huffed dramatically, letting her head fall back as if in pain, “If you have to.” 

She felt him push her slightly with a scowl before walking them towards the produce. 

 

 

One half of the structure was packed with produce; ranging from cabbage to radish and potatoes within boxes of dark and earthy soil. 

Jon explained with a boyish smile of how Robb would steal carrots from the garden just to make the grumpy old caretaker mad, stashing them within folds of baggy clothes before handing them out to Jon and Theon. Then when they stepped near the radish, he suddenly bellowed out a laugh. 

“What?” she asked grinning, heart fluttering at the beauty of his smile. His deep dimples were showing, the skin around his eyes crinkling as they tended to do when he was genuinely laughing. 

He shook his head, catching his breath as he spoke. “Gods, Sansa hated radish so much,” he ran a hand on top of the exposed roots, “I remember she’d would pick out every speck of it from her stew, no matter how small the piece was.” 

He bit his lip, brushing off the dirt on his fingers on his doublet. “She’d drop it on the floor and cover it with her feet before Lady Stark could notice. But once she had taken out so much that the muck actually started spreading across the floor and I can actually still hear the howl of laughter Father had let out when Lady Stark ducked under the table to see the mess.” 

Dany chuckled, trying once again to picture in her mind how the Lady of Winterfell must’ve looked. If she had created a being as beautiful as Sansa, she must’ve been the most beautiful sight to see in the entirety of the North. 

They walked to every different vegetable grown within the garden, and somehow Jon had the sweetest of a memory attached to every single one of them. Some about himself, but the majority related to his mischievous sister Arya. 

Dany never met a man who was his happiest when speaking about his family like Jon, the very thought of them reviving him even after worst of days. His face was so much younger when he was happy, somehow prettier; all the creases and rough edges erased instantly. 

He seemed to realize he was still talking when he caught her stare, apologizing sheepishly. “Sorry,” he chuckled, running a hand through his curls, “sometimes I get a bit carried away.” 

“No,” Dany blurted, meeting his surprised look with a watery smile. “I love hearing you talk about your family, really.” 

She might not have great memories of her family, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to hear about his. Of course, it made her heart ache knowing someone had everything she’d ever desired in life, but she’d come to realize it actually let her know more about Jon. Honourable to the toe, he wasn’t one to really speak about his own stories, maybe because they were usually so sad, but through his family she felt like she was learning more and more about how Jon Snow became the man he is. 

Gods, Dany really loved him. For when she confessed this to him, all Jon did was adorably flush, shy and mum from the compliment. His lips twitched like they did when he felt giddy, face red and open for one breathtaking moment. 

“C’mon,” he said after clearing his throat, “there’s even more.” 

And more there was, because when they reached the other side Dany saw a sight to pretty her eyes watered.

There lied lines and lines of flowers that Dany had never seen before in her three-and-twenty years of life. Some were a vibrant bright colour, like the clothes of Qarth, other were darker, more sophisticated and earthy. 

Entranced, Dany stumbled forward towards one of the many flowers, the petals thick with a dark red colour. 

“Be careful!” Jon’s warning wasn’t heard fast enough for the moment her hand went to touch the stem of the beauty; she felt a prick on her thumb. Yelping, she retracted her hand quickly to see a blotch of red pooling on the pad of her finger. There was barely a sting, but Dany felt it even less as she was mesmerised at the anatomy of the dangerously beautiful plant. 

“Dany!” Jon scolded, bringing her out of her trance when she felt his lips suck on the tiny puncture. It would’ve been patronizing if she didn’t see the genuine concern in his eyes as he took out the last of the blood whilst eyeing her face. 

“Are you alright?” he said as if she had been stabbed, holding her face in his hands. 

She chuckled. “Jon, it was just a small poke. Don’t worry so much.” She placed her hands over his as she gave him reassurance, pecking his fingers. 

He shook his head, furrowing his brows. “I have to.” 

She frowned at his sudden serious expressions. “Jon, you don’t have to worry that-”

Jon interrupted her uncharacteristically, thumb caressing under the skin of her eyes. “I have seen the things people are willing to do when they loathe someone Dany and I have _experienced_ the things people do when they genuinely hate a man.” He swallowed thickly, face paling when she witnessed a genuine look of terror appear across his face. 

His hands twitched whilst he stared at her, first into her eyes then her whole form desperately. He shook his head furiously. “No,” he gasped, “I won’t let anything like that happen to you.”

“Jon?” she watched him, swallowing her own unsettling panic at his face as she spoke, “I have my guards and I have Jorah, nothing can happen, my love.” 

They had once or twice discussed his death, the topic so sensitive that Dany felt like she had to watch her every word and action. It terrified her, that someone like him could transform so quickly into a paralyzed young man just at the mention of the incident. 

More than the pain or death she knew it was the betrayal that had wounded him so harshly that he was still healing from it. She understood the feeling the moment she recognized it hidden within his pain. Betrayal was worse than most things a man could do, it tainted a person for life no matter how much they attempted moved on. Like a crack in a porcelain bowl, still together yet damaged for life. 

Clearly her reassurance hadn’t worked, for he was still staring at her with those big brown eyes filled to the brim with terror. She wanted to reassure him nothing could happen, but she wasn’t foolish enough to give him false hope. 

So many men had acted against everything she believed they held to value, revealing their true intentions and colours one day or another. It was an ugly fact of life, but enough betrayals would lead anyone to finally except it. 

Her eyes peered down at the rows of flowers, desperate to distract him from the cycle of self-loathing and sadness he tended to spiral through. 

“What is this one?” she whispered, voice almost like a coo. When he blinked, coming back from his dissociation she pointed at the deep blue flower on the other side of the garden. 

The minute she had stepped inside her eyes had found that particular flower, like a magnet her gaze rested on the peculiarity of the thing. It was a dark blue, like how the narrow sea appeared under the moonlight, deep and almost mysterious. The flower looked similar to the one that had pricked her, but there was something about the twists of the blue one that left her mesmerized. 

Jon followed his gaze in the direction of her finger, staring oddly at the flower as well. They walked around the garden till they could get close enough to the thing, both only having eyes for the mysterious flower. The closer they got, the stronger the sickeningly sweet scent engulfed Dany. It was an odd combination of hard candies from Yunkai and the perfumes of Pentos, somehow a breath of fresh air whilst being nauseating. 

“It’s a blue winter rose,” Jon murmured by her side, feathering a finger over one curled petal. “I’ve heard quite a bit about them actually.”

“Really?” Dany asked, peering up at his face. 

He nodded, slow and hesitant. The action made Dany stiffen at the sudden formality she felt emanating from his form. 

Jon took in a deep breath before gazing in her direction, brows furrowed. “A crown of these actually.” 

And then it hit her. 

“Oh,” she mumbled, suddenly hyper-aware of the silver hair resting on her shoulders and back. 

The topic of Rhaegar was something of a confliction for Dany. Sometimes she’d think of him and pervaded with an aching pride and genuine relief that someone, at least _one_ man, in her family had been a good person. Ser Barristan’s deep voice replaying in her head about his adventures with her older brother making her wistful and in awe of his grace and gentle heart. 

His free-spirited ways brought so much hope for Dany, made her reason that perhaps after winning the throne she’d be able to introduce that type of peace and content for the many. That no more people who despised blood would be driven to shed another’s for a war that did not matter.

And then she heard the other story, the one that stroke a harsh punch into her guts, made her feel such a disappointment for a man she’d never even met. 

It had been Tyrion who’d outed the story. Miserably he explained the story of Harrenhal after being defeated by her indefatigable nature, only speaking after three full glasses of Dorne’s finest. Never had Dany wished to go back in time as much as in that moment, because with every word that escaped his wine-stenched breath Dany had felt the very light squeeze out of her soul. 

“ _No_ ,” she had managed to gasp out, covering her gaping mouth with a palm. _No, no, not him too._

Rhaegar was supposed to be the odd one out, the good and pure-hearted one. The one that reminded her that her blood did not run with madness or cruelty; rather, a tragic story of a great house that had caused its own demise. He was supposed to be everything Viserys had not been able to be for Dany. 

He had raped a woman, stolen her away from her land for his own selfish means. Not only that, but because of his egomaniacal ways a war had been triggered, causing millions to die yet again for the noble and rich. Everything Dany stood for…Rhaegar’s decisions and legacy spat on it. 

She had dismissed the youngest Lannister quite quickly after that, pretending to not have seen his pitiful eyes gaze upon her for a beat before rushing out of her room at the top of Meereen. It was too soon for him to witness her in a state of utter devastation or weakness. 

That night she had cried herself to sleep, the melancholy in her heart too strong to reveal even to Missandei’s nurturing self. All she had wanted was one person who was good, one person in her family she could look up to without a speck of shame, that she could recall during the worst moments. 

_I am Daenerys Stormborn,_ she had whispered through her sore and ragged throat decidedly, _I do not need anyone for strength.I will be my own strength._

Jon seemed to have witnessed her wince at the almost blasphemous name, backtracking quickly. “We don’t have to talk about him Dany-”

“No,” she shook her head immediately, determined to not let her eyes water, “he did a terrible thing. I cannot pretend like the people before me had not committed terrible acts because they believed their power allowed it.”

They stayed silent afterwards, Jon awkward and Dany miserable. No matter what her mouth had let out, all her mind could do was spiral at the name. Rhaegar Targaryen, the one who went mad from a prophecy. 

She wondered embarrassingly if he was feeling pity for her fate when he frowned: the poor Targaryen princess who had no sane family, all alone in this harsh world. 

Jon maneuvered her around the garden some more to show other flowers; quiet, clearly understanding that she needed some time to compose herself into the Dragon Queen. 

She was staring absentmindedly at his fingers as they ran across a row of bright orange flowers. They almost looked like puffs of cotton wrapped around a thick green stem; delicate yet resilient. 

“You know I believe in you, right?” Jon asked abruptly, catching her idle self-pitying off-guard. 

She met his eyes, her violets wide and confused. She searched for sarcasm, or mirth, and when failing at her finding she whispered, “What?” 

And her hands were suddenly being swept into his, all the tension washed off of his place only to be replaced with a look Dany so clearly remembered from the Dragon Pit; determination and earnestness. 

“I don’t care of what your family did, good or bad. You are _you_ , Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, not the daughter of some mad man.” His voice was loud, almost angry as if frustrate by her self-doubt. “People can say all they want about your family and their choices, whether justified or not.” 

Jon’s face softened as he took her in, voice zephyr-like as it caressed her heart with its sweetness. 

“I know you; I know your heart. It’s pure, powerful, and _good_ Dany. You’re such a good person, you know that?” 

She could barely see him through the sudden flood of tears spilling out of her eyes, throat tender and at loss of words as he continued cooing at the kindest words she’d ever heard in her life. 

Jon dipped his head to maintain eye contact, chuckling out a breath with disbelief. “Gods Dany, you’re a liberator, a hero.”

“Am I?” she croaked. 

He nodded, not even a second of hesitation in his voice. “You are. And you are so much more than just the daughter of Aerys, you’re the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons.” He shook his head incredulously. “You don’t even know how badly I want to retort all your titles in your face those first few days on Dragonstone. But then you apologized for Aerys’s crimes, let me-a stranger-stay in your home and use your resources. And then I stepped outside the castle, met the people who were hell-bent on calling you _Mhysa_ , before meeting Missandei.” Jon caressed her thumbs gently, whispering almost. 

“And then you saved us. A band of fools who went on a suicide mission, and you, like a god-sent being saved us. And aye, I realized after that that you do deserve every single title added onto your name. You may have been born Aerys’s daughter, Rhaegar and Viserys’s sister, but fucking hell Dany you are much more than them, powerful than them, _better_ than them.”

Never had she been at such a loss of words, a mixture of disbelief and fierce love for the goodness of the man in front of her and anger that she needed to be reminded of such things. 

Why were they getting to her so much? She had faced amplified versions of such demur before, yet somehow this time she was being left exhausted and doubting. 

Maybe time was getting to her, tip-toeing its way into her heart with jagged feet as a reminder that scars never fully healed in this world, and no matter what she could possibly do they would never care for her. 

Dany met his gaze, passion thrumming within every heavy breath as he waited for her to respond. 

When all she did stare back with milky eyes, he let out a sigh, pressing their foreheads together. “You will be a good queen, Dany. The best of them all.” 

And suddenly the most beautiful picture painted itself into Dany’s mind, so alluring that all she could do was let out a watery laugh, making Jon cock his head back in confusion.

It was foolish really, a silly thought that would never happen granted how thing were turning out for humanity. A few moons ago, such buoyancy in her belief in another human being would’ve made her scoff, because how could it happen. 

Who could love a dragon? 

Yet by some means it ignited an almost scalding scintillation in her heart, in her soul, in her mind. And all Dany wanted to do was engulf Jon in its warmth, make him know that she loved him, _gods_ she loved him with her ever atom. 

So, she wordlessly turned to her right, hand swooping under his to pluck one of the sapphire-like roses with its tall and strong form from below his arm. He was watching her quizzically, lazily smiling at her girlish grin when he murmured, “What are you planning to do woman?” 

Dany twirled the flower between her fingers rhythmically, eyeing him as if in contemplation just to keep him on his toes. “C’mere,” she whispered. 

Taking two steps forward like a command, he tilted his head, hands going behind his back. 

Her heart was beating rapidly, pounding from the jolt of hope within her chest. Was this idiotic? Most likely. But even she deserved to experience the wonders of youth, just for once at least.

She held his gaze to cool her nerve, those brown orbs somehow a balm to any burn, peeling off any last doubt in her mind. 

Dany slowly brought the rose forward, straightening her spine and hardening her confidence before saying, “Will you marry me?” 

She had been worried that her words had been spoken to softly and she’d have to muster up double the courage to repeat it; however, to her delight and dismay he seemed to have heard her loud and clear. 

Jon stumbled back slightly, face freezing as he sped his gaze along her face as if reading a book. Before long he was huffing out an incredulous, almost manic laugh. “You’re joking.” 

He scoffed, shaking his head to which she furrowed her brows. “Do I seem like a jokey person to you?” 

“Well…” his shoulders fell sheepishly, “well no-”

“So,” she cut him off smiling, bringing forward the flower once again, “will you?”

It took him a good five minutes to accept the fact that the words had even left her mouth, it seemed, for he kept gaping right before scoffing and rolling his eyes, before finally gaping once again. 

“You’re serious?” he asked with wide eyes. 

She nodded happily, proudly. “Yes, I am Jon Snow.” 

Of all the things she’d expect him to do in retaliation, laughing, crying, or maybe sweeping her into a grand hug, frowning was not the one action she expected him to settle for. 

“What?” she asked at his sullen silence, suddenly nervous again. 

His head tilted as if in disbelief that she’d even be questioning his obvious doubt. “Dany,” he said sadly, “I can’t do that to you.”

She frowned even more. “Do what?”

He sighed. “I’m a bastard and you’re a queen Seven Hells.”

How could he even think that way? Dany shook her head, appalled. “You really think I care about you being a bastard? It didn’t affect my feelings for you when I first met you, and it doesn’t now either.”

“Dany,” he almost whined, “you can’t have a bastard by your side on the throne-”

“Then I’ll legitimize you,” she insisted with a look of lour. Why was his bastardy of importance now, all of a sudden? 

She must’ve forgotten how stubborn he was, for he shook his head furiously and insistent again. “Dany,” he was laughing for some reason, before he was holding her face once more tightly, “I will not let your reign be tainted or questioned because you have me by your side, never. You’ve worked so hard.”

That took Dany back, made her gape with a parted mouth at him as her heart was slammed with a rush of sadness “Is that truly what you think of yourself?” she asked softly, mournfully.

Would it take her the length of a galaxy to make him understand how important he was? How pure of a person he was, though his childhood should’ve shaped him the worst? 

When he remained mum with wandering eyes, showing that miserable self-loathing frown she’d come to despise Dany tilted him by the chin. Her words were gentle like as the fur on Ghost, “You really think of yourself as a taint, Jon?”

He didn’t nod, but he might as well have, because all Jon did was let out a devastating sigh, one she assumed was an action of acceptance of his lowly existence that he’d come to terms with at too early of an age. 

Dany pursed her lips, praying she wouldn’t come out too harsh. “Well that’s idiotic,” she stated, standing high. 

She hid her wince as he scowled, clearly not taking in the words to her wishes. “So clearly you understand my point then-”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head profusely with curved brows, “all I know is that you’re the most selfless, honest, and genuine man I’ve ever met in my life.” 

His mouth opened to protest but she continued on before he could utter a word. “And if I am not my father, or my brother, then you are most certainly not the product of evil or spite-or whatever nonsense people deem bastards.”

He breathed out frustratingly. “This is different though.”

“Is it?” she retorted immediately. “In the North my name is as damned as yours is Jon Snow, and yet that hasn’t stopped me from placing faith in you above every person here _with_ a noble name. You are more than your name; you are more than your birth.” 

Jon paused for a while, eyeing her face before dipping down to the winter rose. It was more than Dany’s short patience could handle, heart pumping with an unusual amount of wracked nerves. 

This man, she chuckled to herself, making the Dragon Queen feel like a green girl. 

It was agonizing, standing in the silence to the point that Dany finally bursted with a scowl. “Jon Snow I am not prone to waiting-”

“Alright,” he said with a stupidly big smile, grinning even wider knowing he’d annoyed her. How anyone believed Jon Snow was a simple man befuddled her. 

Her frown fell, that unrealistic hope igniting in her heart. “Alright?” she repeated, dopey and big-eyed. 

Jon nodded beaming, head dipping down as if to kiss her hard like he’d done the first time of the ship, making her dizzy and feel full of belonging. Instead he froze, eyes catching the rose in her hand.

He snatched the rose out of her hand swiftly, pressing it against his heart before meeting her gaze. Softly, he spoke as is singing the sweetest song, “I will marry you, Daenerys Targaryen.” 

And suddenly she was being crushed into his arms, probably taking the breath right out of her short form. But she couldn’t remotely feel it for an insurmountable warmth had diffused into her blood, like sugar so sweet, the pain in her head vanished like mist hitting the sun. 

A family, a partner. He was everything she’d secretly dreamed for for so painfully long. Was it possible that she was imagining it all? A torturous fever dreamed induced by her long nights of loneliness? 

_No_ , she told herself proudly, beaming at wonders the Gods could give a man if they wanted when Jon shakingly whispered _Dany, my love, my whole whole heart,_ against the skin of her neck, _he is mine. And I am his._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David & Dan can literally, and I can't stress this enough, go choke for devastating me in the most insurmountable ways humanly possible.


	3. The world gives you so much pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and here you are  
> making gold out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really nervous for this chapter, not gonna lie. I love these two characters with all my being and I really hope I didn't fuck it up and could bring out enough of each of their personalities with justice.

The sound of the dusty and frail pages echoed throughout the silent library, so quiet it was that every shuffle Dany made in her seat was like a jagged rock slamming into the ground. 

She attempted to blink the blurriness out of her stinging eyes, shaking her dipping head furiously to maintain attention. Perhaps Maester Wolkan's sedative that Jon had requested for her had the after-effect of drowsiness. Though ultimately Dany didn't mind falling asleep in random areas if it meant her head would stop pulsating with pain for once in what felt like forever. 

It had been a while since she had gotten some spare time to read, something of such importance to her growing up. Unfortunately, is was as well something that had gotten tainted with every year of Viserys’s anger. 

Often in Braavos, she’d run around the weathered-down and raggedy stalls of small merchants and sit by their empty seats, pestering them into telling her stories. She had always loved stories. There was something fascinating to Dany about how often one choice ends up defining the path of a person, whether destructive or constructive of a choice. It almost ended up like a game to her; sitting beside the old men as they croaked out the journey of their life until she could finally connect the dots and understand what the ending was. Most of the stories tended to have similar endings, of what Dany remembered, the old merchants slightly smiling as they finally professed the name of the _one_ person; the one that changed the direction of their story, the one that defined it. Those were the ones that would anger her the most, as the game would conclude quite quickly within her head at the mention of the one. 

Maybe it wasn’t the game being solved so quickly, Dany thought in retrospect; rather, the fact that no matter how many different men she’d stumble upon they all found someone, or something that made their lives feel complete. 

How was it that the poorest, maybe least fortunate of a city, were the ones who lead the simplest of pure lives? Because the richer of men Dany would speak with, with their polished-stalls and silk clothes, the sadder the stories would get. 

Eventually the frustration of the serendipity of the impoverish merchants got to her. She wanted stories like her own dammit, where a lone wolf somehow beat the odds and survived by themselves, rather than the candied endings of the many. So, she drowned in books; some from melancholy writers drunk off of their unrequited love, others of lone survivors journeying through the unknown world. 

All of them did help shape Dany into what she was now, she thought in retrospect. But more than the lessons, she had loved the escapist feeling they brought out in her; when reading the books, she wasn’t the exiled daughter of a mad man, the last of a doomed house. She could be a spy, or an honourable knight venturing through the thick woods of the west. 

No matter how much her heart ached every day at observing yet another rejection spat in Viserys’s face, she could change her mood depending on the novel she read. When he was angry, she would read the sweet tales of knights and maidens. When they were hungry, she’d read the tales of feasts where lords and ladies were stabbed in the back by their hosts, ending years of feuds. 

Dany never thought she’d ache to escape in words so desperately ever again, after she had earned her Khalasar, after she became a Khaleesi, then a revolutionary, why would she?

And yet here she was, diving deep into the pool of beautiful words written by aged men as they had sipped wine and never faced a day of distress or utter despair. How funny was it that the most tragic of stories ended up being written by men who had not even experienced a taste of the pain of those 

in history? 

_What will my history be?_

“Hello.” 

Dany jolted in her seat at the sudden breaking of the library’s pin-drop silence, her startled form quickly looking around the dimly-lit room to find her culprit while her heart raced. 

Fate be it, that the one time she asked her guards to leave her alone she would be silently killed in the dreadfully dull castle. 

However, her inwardly cursing at her foolishness halted when Dany’s eyes landed upon the short form of Jon’s beloved sister, the one he spoke of so much sweetly and nostalgically on the boat that Dany had come to believe she knew her like her own. 

Arya Stark was a funny woman. The first time Dany had laid eyes on her in the Great Hall her breath had hitched at the sudden sight of Jon’s spitting image. 

Though she was shorter in height, hair lighter, longer, and slicker, there was something about the young woman that had almost brought tears to Dany’s eyes at the first sight. Maybe because she almost looked like Jon’s daughter, if he ever even had one; the same soft big brown eyes that liked to observe busy crowds with a silent demeanor, eyes that somehow were tinged with a certain loneliness and sadness Dany always associated with Jon. 

The only reason Dany had come to realize their difference was because of her movements. It seemed like she would sweep into Dany’s peripheral vision at the most random of times in Winterfell, only to have disappeared in the spur of second before Dany could possibly meet her eyes. Swift like the wind, she was. And in the off chance that she would be standing still in a room, she was stoic like a tall old tree, only watching passersby soundlessly whilst blending into crowds.

Dany shut the book carefully, placing it on the table with a thump, never breaking her gaze on the young woman who was walking slowly towards her. “Hello,” she managed to greet after a moment, queenly smile bright on her face, “you must be Arya.”

The young woman didn’t speak, hands clasped behind her back as her short form, but tall stature kept nearing Dany. It unnerved Dany, feeling such an unabashed stare upon her face, made her feel like she was being solved like a convoluted puzzle just from a few glances. 

Arya smirked suddenly when just a few steps away from her seated-form, making Dany slightly tilt her head up to match the intrigued gaze. _Smart_. “And you must be the Dragon Queen,” she whispered with round eyes, the sound so soft and harrowingly identical to the whispers of ghost in the House of the Undying, that Dany’s skin prickled with goosebumps. 

And suddenly she was sitting beside Dany, chair faced towards her and legs crossed with the grace and swiftness of silk in the wind. Dany had barely blinked in the span of time, tongue suddenly dried of her usual wit when faced with the enigma that was Arya Stark. 

“My brother has spoken a lot about you in the span of six days, you know?” she asked with that same phlegmatic look, one elbow leaning against the table and as she watched Dany. Her clothes were as well similar to what Dany was used to seeing Jon in, brown leather gambeson wrapped fittingly around her form with one of two loops occupied with lethal weapons. Maybe she was going to get killed in this dreadful castle after all. 

Dany blinked, shoulders rising sharply. Nothing really filled her with an overflowing amount of confidence like a subtle amount of threats to her life. 

“Yes,” she murmured unperturbed, “as has he of you.” 

_There_. Arya’s face suddenly contorted, flushed, her shoulders shifting only if for a split of a breath before stiffening up. _She really loves him._

She cleared her throat to cover her blunder, but Dany had already seen right through her. There was… _something_ , something that Dany ached to understand about the two siblings that seemed to transcend the other when discussed, as if their stories of childhood together were of sacred texts and fairytale books. She’d seen the way it had melted Jon, this sort of content unknown to Dany, painting his face when he mentioned the adventures he had went on with his beloved sister. 

“My brother and I have been through a lot,” Arya stated, “it was always easier having each other’s backs when you are as alienated as we were.” Dany’s upper lip twitched, almost shattering the hardened look she’d created. Her tone irked Dany. It made her feel as if Arya believed she had just met Jon, as if the past months of highs and lows had never happened, as if they hadn’t fallen in love involuntarily. 

She nodded, unrelenting to shift her gaze. “So, I’ve heard.”

They spewed in the tension till it felt like tightened ropes, making even the slightest of movements feel like demerits in their battle. 

But then, Dany frustratingly remembered why she was in Winterfell, why she needed to win over more people if she wanted to rule with a semblance of peace. So, growling inwardly, she sighed, gazing away defeatedly. 

_She’s Jon’s sister, his beloved sister._ At least one of the Stark siblings had to not hate her, a sad but at this point only realistic goal Dany could surmise. 

To gift an olive branch, she cleared her throat before speaking again. “I’ve heard that you lived in Braavos for some time, is that right?”

Arya eyed her, clearly contemplating if she wanted to even converse with this mysterious woman, before nodding slowly. “I was trained with the faceless men for some years, yes.”

“I lived in Braavos for quite some time as well.” 

This seemed to intrigue the young woman, for her brown eyes widened the slightest, lashes fluttering slightly as curiosity settled over her round face. 

Dany took the intrigue as an opening, continuing. “After Robert had taken the throne and given Dragonstone to his brother, it was known that we would get slaughtered the moment their ships arrived on the island. So, after my mother named me during her final few breaths Viserys and I were smuggled into Essos.” She smiled mournfully all of a sudden, the hazy but lasting features of Ser Willem blooming in her mind. In many ways he was the closest thing to a father she had ever gotten, and she desperately begged herself to ingrain the little things she remembered about the man. 

The one thing she was sure of was the he had a boyish smile. With hair the colour of hazelnuts, so soft and silky that when he’d be carrying Dany expeditiously, her small stumps of fingers would attempt to paw in the layers of it. 

Whenever she’d pull too hard on the strands she never let even a strand of fear enter her, so assured deep in her tiny body that no matter how terrified he was for their safety, or how frustrated that no one would take in the poor spare children of the deceased King, he’d always smile. 

In her nostalgia she had foolishly let her eyes brim with tears, which of course Arya had picked up on. There was no loathing in her features, to Dany’s surprise; rather, a fractional amount of softening in her face. Her mouth parted, as if she understood not fully, but slightly the yearning in Dany’s voice. 

“Anyways,” Dany sniffled as subtlety as possible, “we lived in Braavos for the first few years of my life. Of what I can remember, I think those were most likely the simplest of years I’ll ever get.”

“What did you like about it?” Arya’s voice wasn’t interrogative, rather inquisitive and empathetic. 

Dany beamed; she could converse about that house for years if she was given the chance. “Our house had this red door,” she tilted her head in thought, staring at the crinkled spine of the book on the table, “it was this colour that I’ve never seen before or after really. Not like blood, but not like berries either just…something out of the ordinary. Something inimitable.” 

“Berries? What are berries?” Dany shot her head up at the fortuitous amount of innocence in the young Stark’s voice. It was amusing to see a childlike fascination of what she could assume was of rarity for someone as traveled as Arya. 

“They are a delicious fruit. Really tart and small actually, with little seeds.” She pinched her fingers to reflect the size, quickly looking up in the process to see Arya’s still engrossed eyes. “I’m assuming you don’t get many fruits up in the North?” she asked teasingly. 

She shook her head, nose scrunching. “No, we only got plums, lemons, and bananas really.”

Dany chuckled softly. “You don’t like lemons?”

“No not really, it has always been more of Sansa’s favourite.” Arya grinned like a Cheshire cat without warning at some notion, the beauty of joy on her face stunning Dany to widen her eyes. “But I loved putting lemons in Jon’s food. The sort of scowl he’d make when his stew would taste rancid was priceless.”

Dany had already heard the story moon ago but hearing the same softness in Arya’s voice that has coated Jon’s every word only solidified her belief that their bond was pure, unadulterated and genuine. Relief like a salve to a harsh cut flood through her; it felt good knowing that she wasn’t in the anomaly, that there were good enough people who wanted more than the political power that came from being by Jon’s side. That there were folks who fiercely needed to protect him from harm, who wanted to make him laugh till those deep dimples painted his beautiful face. 

Still, she nodded as if it was brand new information. “I assumed he’d be pretty angry with you afterwards.” 

Arya shook her head, biting her bottom lip to quell the giggle that so desperately wanted to escape from her. “No, I was always good as coercing him. It didn’t take much really to make him happy again, often times I’d piss of Theon just to get him laughing again.” 

“And if it didn’t work?” 

Arya paused at that, genuinely contemplating with that signature Jon-like tilt of the head. “I don’t know, he never stayed angry long enough for me to know actually. Most likely he’d just brood I guess.”

“Oh, he loves brooding, doesn’t he?” Dany laughed, heart soaring with a type of lightness that hadn’t occurred because of a new person in a long time. 

Arya nodded, so bubbly and cheerful Dany thought the woman in front of her was an entirely new person; one with lightness, with a type of carefree joy that all young women deserved. “I wish you could see that way he’d brood as a kid. With this round face and long curls, he’d just huff and then stomp into a corner-”

And suddenly the youngest daughter of House Stark let out a soft laugh. The sound like the chiming of bells, innocent and song-like; so, juxtaposed by the indecipherable stance she displayed in public to the majority. 

The image of a small, chubby Jon frowning and weeping at the smallest of trivial problems wonderfully flourished in her mind, and suddenly the young queen was laughing as well. It was so contagious, Arya’s genuine laugh, that Dany’s own fits of giggles bubbled out of her throat, her lips involuntarily curving up high, making her double down in the creaky seat. 

It felt freeing, laughing with another like this. Genuine joy at the memories of youth, of simpler times. Dany wondered how many nights Arya and Jon would spend in the coming weeks sitting like this, but even more comfortable and carefree as they spoke about their idiotic choices as kids. 

_Good_ , Dany thought as her face began aching at the wide grin on her lips, _he deserves love and laughter, gods he really does._

The sound of the two women laughing echoed in the large library, bouncing off of the ancient books and the peeling wooden tables. It was like they were in this dissociating thick bubble, protected from the harshness and cruelty of life as ladies, lords, queens, and kings. Like they were actually just young women. 

When was the last time she’d heard a sound so pure, so unfeigned and untainted by the acid of prejudice and politics? Was it just the intoxication of nostalgia? Or was this the serendipity that came with making friends instead of foes or strained allies?

Dany wondered if like her, the young woman had faced enough battles and trials that emotions such as joy and tranquility were subconsciously considered a vulnerable and weak facet of life. If she internally winced when she felt happiness like this because it was always taken away, _always_. 

Most young girls, Dany thought sadly, ended up believing so anyways. 

By the time their laughter had subsided, Dany’s jaw and stomach were aching, and a cathartic wave of cloud-like buoyancy sweetened the air around them. 

She could tell Arya was suffering the same fate, one hand pressed on her belly as she moaned and rubbed. “I think I’ve laughed enough for a lifetime,” she groaned, right before giggling all over again. Dany wished in the moment to hear the symphony of the sound for an eternity, as she watched her attempt to contain her giggles weakly. 

“Me too,” she sighed, “I don’t think I’ll be able to read another page of my book today without picturing a tiny Jon all angry and broody.” 

Arya’s face perked. “What book are you reading?” she asked as she pulled her chair nearer to Dany’s. 

Is this what it would’ve felt like to have a younger sister? Dany asked sadly and suddenly. Someone to read to in the darkness of night, someone who looks up to me. And then, knowing there was no point pretending, she eyed Arya sweetly before quickly grabbing the book. Someone who loves me without conditions. 

She peeled her gaze away, heart fluttering as her fingers ran over the withering book. “ _A Time of Wolves: The History of House Stark_ , by Maester Walys.”

“Walys?” Arya hummed curiously, “I think he was my grandfather’s maester.”

“I thought only Grand Maesters wrote about the house?” Dany asked. There was so much of the culture of Westeros that she’d never learned about till she set foot on the land, no matter how much Vis tried when they were children. 

She shrugged. “Maybe he wanted to become a one but just never got the chance.”

Dany nodded, brain wracking in the following silence for topics, desperate to keep their conversation going. 

“Do you like reading?” she blurted out, wincing at the squeak in her voice; Dany had never really been the most talkative of people. 

“Not really,” Arya paused with a shake of the head, frowning for a split moment before adding on, “but I did love reading about your family.” 

“Really?” Dany asked, praying the surprise and joy in her pulsing heart was not noticeable. There was a scarce amount of times she’d heard someone mention her family with such a positive connotation, rather than the usual pity and doom-like coating of tone people used. 

“I always wanted to be Visenya growing up,” Arya spoke softly, girlish and innocent. “It always fascinated me how the two woman who had conquered so many of the kingdoms for Aegon were rarely ever mentioned in history books or by maesters.” 

She was right, Dany thought in retrospect. Only when she had read her fourth book on Aegon’s conquest had she learned that it was Visenya who had won the Vale for him. She wondered sadly how many of the two Targaryen queens’ accomplishments had been buried under the glory of their brother, of the king. 

“I always wanted to be Alysanne,” Dany mentioned. Had she ever even told anyone that before? She couldn’t remember. Quickly she added with a smile, “I was never the type to wield a sword really. I’d rather wield my words sharply.”

Arya suddenly frowned disappointingly, making Dany panic with worry. Had somehow ruined the moment? 

“So, you don’t wield a sword on the back of your dragon then?” Arya questioned glumly, shoulders slumping. 

Dany shook her head, heart faltering. “No, I don’t,” she stated before adding curiously, “where’d you hear that?” 

“People talk,” Arya shrugged, smirking. “Some of your stories people gossiped about I knew were ridiculous, but I had hopes that the sword one was true.”

Dany didn’t know why she said it but knew that she needed the young Stark to not be disappointed in her. So, she blurted without thinking, “You can always teach me.” 

She regretted it the moment it breathed into existence. Sometimes in her content she tended to forget her place, her name, and she’d say words she knew Tyrion would yelp at in response.

But then Arya spoke, making her neck almost snap. “Okay.”

She spoke simply, as if speaking with a young stable boy friend who dreamed of becoming a knight. 

“Okay?” Dany mumbled, struck with surprise.

Arya shrugged, grinning at Dany’s mouth hung open. “All you need to do is stick em’ with the pointy end, not very hard really.” 

And suddenly Dany was grinning too, a stupid amount of hope blooming within her as she took in the genuine eager-look in the young women’s eyes. Maybe we can be more than allies, maybe I can be more than Jon’s queen. 

She nodded, bringing her hand forward as a shock of energy jolted through her system at the flourishing optimism blooming within. “Alright then,” she said, shaking Arya’s smaller hand, “let’s stick em with the pointy end then.” 

Maybe staying in Winterfell wouldn’t be a miserable pile of dull snow after all.

~

Arya Stark was a woman of her words, Dany realized, for the next morning just as the sun peeked out of the horizon there was a loud knock on her door. 

The sound jolted Dany awake, body wanting to sit right up only to be blocked by the weight of Jon’s form lying on top of hers.

Jon grumbled against her collar bone at the harsh noise, arm pawing around her waist unconsciously. “Who’s knocking this early in the morning?” he mumbled, voice husky and viscous. 

Dany dipped her head down to check if he had been woken, or it was his usual sleep talking. The black curls covering his eyes and his pouty lips made her grin; sleepy Jon was as grumpy as a bear, Dany had come to learn amusedly. 

“It’s your sister. So, how about you get your lazy arse up enough for her to move.”

Jon shot up suddenly with wide panic-filled eyes, thankfully letting her arm crushed under his weight gain some blood again after being asleep for so long. His gaping mouth and wide eyes stared towards the door for a good minute before meeting Dany’s exasperating ones. 

“ _How does she know!_ ” he whispered screamed with furrowed brows, clumsily moving off of her. 

Dany shrugged, neither worried nor embarrassed as she took his hand to pull off the warm bed. Arya was attentive and observant, and if she somehow hadn’t noticed the longing gazes Jon managed to give in a room packed with Lords and Ladies, Dany would seriously be dubious of the young woman’s skills. 

“I will be in the courtyard in five minutes, Arya!” she announced loudly whilst trying to calm Jon’s flailing arms and pulling a shift over her head. She heard a quick alright, followed by footsteps becoming softer.

She didn’t understand Jon’s hysteria. Eventually everyone would discover their relationship when they swore vows to each other in front of the heart tree, and Arya was his sister, was he not happy to let her know? 

Dany asked him exactly that, to which he cocked his head back in unabashed incredulousness. “Dany,” he chuckled as if it was obvious, “she’s my sister.” 

Dany frowned; her hands that were skimming through the closet filled with clothing paused. “So?”

“ _So_ ,” he shook his head, huffing before helped her arms into the sleeves of her chosen dress, “you think I want my sister knowing what…I do here?” His cheeks tinted red, noticeable even under the faint light of dawn. 

_Always the Northerner._

She always knew he was somewhat of a prude when it came to topics like these, and yet it somehow always made brought a wicked grin to her face. 

“And what _do_ you do, in my room Jon?” she teased, eyes narrowing. True to his ways, his skin turned the colour of a ripe tomato at her words, mouth opening and closing whilst he attempted to retort. 

A scowl formed on his face when in the midst of his embarrassment he caught her grinning, hands resting on his own hips in annoyance. “What are you two doing this early anyways?” he asked gruffly to divert his flustering body. 

She sighed, directing him to pull her hair from under the thick dress. “She’s training me.”

“Training you?” he asked with surprise, pausing his movements. 

Dany nodded, urging him to quicken his pace. “She’s teaching me sword fighting.” 

“Wait, wait, wait.” He turned her around by his hands on her shoulders, making her face him once again. To her shock, he was actually smiling. It was boyish and slight, sludgy from the sleep still clearly in his features. “You’re going to wield a sword now too?” he asked. His tone wasn’t malice or fearful; rather amazed, and celebratory. 

“Yes,” she confirmed, already feeling more confident of her decision at the pride emanating in his glassy eyes, “it’s better to have more skills isn’t it?”

“Of course,” he said, suddenly frowning. “But why didn’t you ever ask me to train you?” There was only a ting of hurt in his tone when he asked the question, but it made her heart clench anyways. 

Dany placed a palm on his cheek, shaking her head immediately to assure him. “It’s nothing against you, Jon. But I think it’s a good way to get to know her better and get trained as well, you know?” 

Her reassurance seemed to have worked, for he began smiling again, placing a hand over the one on his face. “So that means you’re bonding with her?” he asked, eyes shiny and voice watery. 

“Let’s not get carried away,” she dismissed, making him chuckle. “I have only had one conversation with her….” She paused, biting her lip to conceal her smile. “But I think we can.” 

His grin was from ear to ear now, brown eyes so wonderfully joyful and excited. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” he choked out softly. 

He cleared his throat while she was tying off her long hair. When she walked to the door after looking determinedly into the mirror, he caught her hand, pulling her flush against him. 

“Hey,” Jon spoke softly with his head dipped to meet her eyes, in the nurturing way she was blissfully used to, “you don’t have to worry alright? Once she knows you, she’ll love you too.” 

“You think so?” she asked in a hushed and wavering tone, feeling his lips press against her as gentle as a feather. 

Jon nodded, a confidence and pride on his face so determined that Dany knew he had no doubt. Many could doubt her, many had in the past and most undoubtedly would in the future, but Jon…Jon never did. “I know it.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess tomorrow we will be able to determine whether D&D are gonna be screwed for life lol. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and hope we all will survive tomorrow! <333333333333333


	4. Brave Danny Flint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know Visenya would wear dresses as she wielded Dark Sister on the back of her dragon?”
> 
> “Yes, well we do not _have_ Visenya here, centuries later alive, to explain the details of how one can possibly carry those three tasks at once, now can we?”
> 
> “No…we can’t.”
> 
> “Alright. Now that that’s settled, jump over my back.”
> 
> “Jump over your _what_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany's palms roughen, Arya figures out why The Hound _loved_ training her when she royally sucked at swordplay, and Jon...Jon is Jon, but ten times sadder and broodier somehow. 
> 
> I don't really know how I feel about certain aspects of this chapter. But hopefully I still was able to write it out smoothly, because honestly this is the only thing getting me through the depressive acceptance that my show ended in 2017, with Dany getting that sweet prophesied lovin from my still character-intacted Jonny boy.

Turned out, sword fighting was more exhaustive of a task than dealing with stubborn perfumed merchants of Qarth. 

The first morning they had begun with light training, just so Arya could observe the flexibility of Dany’s body. Some stretches, bending of the back, twisting of the arm, and yet what Arya had called “easy play” had ended up making Dany’s body throb with aches by the time the sun hid under the horizon. 

Dany wasn’t one to like losing-never really had been-but there was something extremely unnerving of constantly toppling over while in the process of mirroring moves that Arya did with the grace and poise of a swan. 

“You’re wearing the wrong pants,” Arya pointed out mockingly, after Dany’s knee had crashed into the stiff and freezing dirt for the umpteenth time. Her pants had become sodden and miserly cold from making contact with the frozen ground, but Dany wouldn’t let anyone figure that out. 

She looked up, scowling and huffing. “These pants were tailored for dragon riding,” her voice dripped with self-preening, an action Dany did on the rarest of occasions. 

Her sudden burst of confidence deflated the moment she realized Arya’s face hadn’t shift at all really, rather was now tilted to the side clearly unimpressed. 

“What?” she mumbled sheepishly into the dull silence of the morning, stumbling onto her feet again.

Eyeing the swishing of Dany’s dress, Arya muttered, “Your pants need to be more flexible. Sword fighting isn’t about the arms or the sword, it’s about your mind and your feet.” She stuck up right into Dany’s space, startling her. “You have to think five steps ahead, and then five steps ahead of what your component is thinking and these,” her thin sword unsheathed from its holder before prodding Dany’s leg gently, “will restrict your body from making those quick decisions. As will your dress.”

“What’s wrong with a dress?” Dany retorted defensively. She had ridden into countless battle with her outfits, and never had they created hindrances in the midst. 

Arya sighed; voice tinged with annoyance. “Spin around for me.” 

Dany’s brows furrowed. “Why-”

“Just do it!” she snapped, making Dany’s head cock back. 

If she wasn’t so damn worn out, she’d have snarled back, reminding the young Stark that she was still speaking to a queen…but her back was aching and she wanted to finish for the day. With a glare as searing as the meat singing on top of a fire pit, she reluctantly began spinning and spinning right until she heard a sharp rip of thick material from her right ear. 

“What was-” her head snapped down in confusion, eyes still spinning and head woozy when she saw the corner of her charcoal dress split neatly into pieces, one hanging by a single threat from its imminent death. 

A sudden gush of rage filled Dany’s body, starting right from her still swirling head all the way to her numbed toes. She slowly looked up from the dress to the culprit of the gaping tear, eyes narrowed and lips scowling as she watched Arya patiently stand there. 

“I know we are training, and I would like for us to work together but if you think you can fiddle me around like some puppet for your amusement,” she stepped forward, breathy voice puffing like a cloud into Arya’s unmoving face, “you’ve chosen the wrong woman.”

“I know that,” Arya retorted, suddenly smirking beguiled in a way that caused whiplash within Dany. She licked her lips before continuing. “But if you want to fight someone on the ground, as they are about two steps away from you and away from your vulnerable heart, you need to not have these fancy dresses that people can grab and drag you right into the embrace of their sharp daggers,” she added quickly, and so irritatingly charming and sardonic that Dany had to bite her lip, “ _Your Grace_.” 

~

“You know Visenya would wear dresses as she wielded Dark Sister on the back of her dragon?”

“Yes, well we do not _have_ Visenya here, centuries later alive, to explain the details of how one can possibly carry those three tasks at once, now can we?”

“No…we can’t.”

“Alright. Now that that’s settled, jump over my back.”

“Jump over your _what_?”

~

“Will you help me?” Dany murmured from the vanity of her chambers, brushing the last of her fly-away strand of silver. The waves of the early morning sun were peeking through her curtained-windows, like thick paint it splotched yellow across the walls. 

From the mirror she waited for Jon’s wobbly form to stand behind her chair before getting up. The guilt ate away within her at the realization that he had already become equipped to her early-morning training sessions, ruining the little sleep he got anyways. Though he had attempted to console her a prior day the stirring guilt was still there. When she had attempted to convince him of sleeping in his own room to get an actual night of rest, he had only rolled his eyes, taking her face into his hands. 

“ _I want to be there every morning and every evening for you, Dany_ ,” he had whispered against her protesting face. “ _The least I can do while you’re simultaneously training to become a bloody dragon-riding warrior while being a monarch is brushing your hair out, alright?_ ” his voice hadn’t been scolding or patronizing; rather it had been soft like the coos Ghost let out when he was sleepy, warming and comforting against the harshness of winter. The gentleness of his voice had caressed her heart like the way she had dreamed her mother’s touch would’ve been.

Arya had made her train twice as hard that morning when she was almost an hour late. Dany hadn’t regretted her tardiness for once, or the red bites painting her collar bone and nape. 

Dany was about to sit up to grab the gambeson when she heard a sharp intake of breath across the room.

“What?” she asked, alarmed at the almost pained-expression on his face as he stared at her.

He moved his head sluggishly, still entranced with big eyes. 

“What?” she asked again impatiently. 

“Nothing,” he shook his head like a wet dog attempting to dry up before gulping thickly. When he saw her dubious tilt of the head he groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You just look exactly like this one girl I had a crush on when I was a boy,” he spoke softly, shyly. 

Dany giggled, but only slightly to make sure it didn’t seem like she was mocking him. Jon didn’t talk much about his boyhood dreams or desires much, mostly reminiscing the kind helpers and servants he ended up becoming friends with throughout the years as a result of being the sore stick out of the family. 

“I didn’t know Jon Snow had any crushes,” she teased with a grin, stepping forward to observe more of his blushing face, “but I bet you swept them right off their feet.” 

She could imagine how many women and men would swoon for a taste of the scandalous yet pretty bastard of the noble Ned Stark. How green girls would dreamily imagine cracking through the dullness of their mundane practiced lives by rebelling and romancing with Jon. 

Jon nodded with a sad chuckle, hands rubbing the nape of his neck. “No not really, I never really let myself act upon any feelings.” 

“Why?” Dany frowned. He had told her countless times how Theon and Robb would sneak into the Wintertown brothel, coming back few hours later with tousled hair and stupid grins. In her mind she pictured he’d be the brute standing in the corner quietly until his pretty curls were recognized by some young pretty worker, never disclosing it to her because of his prudish way. 

Jon sighed, tugging her by the arm she could sit in his lap on the corner of the bed, her arms automatically resting around his shoulders while his pawed on the top of her leather-cladded thighs. His one hand anchored him up as he watched her slowly, a sad smile on his face.

“The moment I knew what a bastard meant, was the moment I knew I’d never touch a woman in my life,” he started, chewing on his plush bottom lip. “It would’ve been easy really, escaping with some young maiden who I thought was fair, to act on those boyish urges, and once I almost did.”

Dany ran her fingers through his curls, tilting her head slightly. “When?” she asked softly.

He swallowed. “The boys had tried convincing me of coming to the brothel for once, and my patience had thinned from hearing the same question over and over again. And I knew eventually I’d be joining the Night’s Watch, so hell with it, might as well have one good night to remember while I’m freezing. So, I went with them. My mind knew the moment I stepped inside that place that I shouldn’t have come. Robb could say what he wanted, but I think we both knew the insurmountable trouble I would go through if someone figured out, I had been then. But then I saw Ros, with this hair kissed by fire and pretty soft eyes and my impulsive side overcame me and I took her inviting hand up the stairs.” He shook his head slowly, eyes drifting across the ceiling’s lining absentmindedly. 

“She was taking her clothes off and saying all these things in my ears…and I knew I was doing a mistake. She could get pregnant, or we could get caught, or worse both things could happen. And no matter what Theon said I knew that wasn’t how I wanted my first time to be, or my anytime really.” Jon met her eyes again, making her breath hitch at the heat and passion in his chocolatey irises. 

“I wanted it to be with someone I loved,” he murmured softly, hand pressing her tighter into his lap. 

Her pulse raced erratically at the silky words; loyalty had always been able to make her stomach pool with desire. “Well was it?” she asked hesitantly. They had spoken about the Wildling woman only briefly, with her rousing joy to live free, and her hair kissed by fire. 

Jon paused at the question, genuinely contemplating his words. “I think so,” he said with a slight but firm nod. “We were young, and her ideals were so new and intoxicating and I was depressed and scared for my life in this new land. She was the first to give me a taste of what freedom and youth looked like.”

His voice wasn’t filled with longing really, just a splotch of sadness she’s come to associate Jon’s voice with anyways. If he was worried that she had gotten jealous he didn’t show it, and he was right. 

Dany knew that they both had found love unconventionally before meeting each other, and while they were filled with achingly sweet memories of youth and a carefree life, she believed they both accepted that those stories were doomed from the beginning, no matter how they attempted to change it. 

“I get that,” Dany agreed with a whisper, seeing with a gentle smile that same acceptance in his eyes as what was within hers. She bit her lip, eyeing the softness of those red lips she loved to nip. “I’m glad where it brought us.”

He knew what her hesitation and shyness meant when he nodded thickly, because Dany wasn’t a bleeding poet and neither was he, and romantic sayings with pretty words were something they both sorely lacked anyways. Jon tilted his head foreword, capturing her soft lips with his into a searing kiss. 

If she didn’t have training in a few minutes, and if she wasn’t frustratingly closed up in all these layers, she would have made love to him right there on the corner of the bed, the need to taste that heady flavour of Jon’s tongue almost overpowering her will. 

Jon groaned when she painfully pulled herself back from his pouty lips, her head pressing against his as they huffed and puffed. 

“When you’re done,” he murmured against the skin of her neck through heaving breaths, “come back okay? I don’t care how many damn layers you wear because I will take them all off and kiss that lovely skin of yours.”

Dany moaned, jumping out of his laugh with a painful chuckle before things got even worse with her self-control. “Help me put this on,” she said firmly after grabbing the neatly folded leathers on her chest of clothes, powering through his fat pupils and red lips. 

Jon’s brows curved up when he got up and took in the design of the black leather Dany was holding, his thumb brushing softly over the tiny splotch of deep red where the thick of her arm would be, a spiralled 3 dragons subtle and neat. “Is this-”

She nodded enthusiastically, almost giggling like a green girl when she interrupted him. “My own gambesons.”

Jon chuckled, taking the leather from her hands to hold up and observe. “Very intricate, I must say.” 

“Missandei worked with the tailor all week,” she said proudly, peeking her head to the side of the top to see his expressions. 

He nodded, impressed, before meeting her eyes, the heat from a few minutes ago transformed into content and pride. “Let’s tie you up.”

~

If Daenerys was anything, it was rational. Having had to face so many diplomats, lords, and powerful merchants who collectively possessed the most narcissistic perspective on basic humanity, one usually ends up growing into such. 

However, that rationality did often clash with her more…heated side. 

It frustrated her that no matter how much she attempted convincing herself otherwise, Arya Stark _was_ right. Not just on the dress debacle, but on every single point she had come to make whilst they were training in the early mornings. 

Not having a dress on had annoyingly freed her, Dany reluctantly acknowledged. What her body could roughly do in the long gowns was minute compared to how much her body moved in the gambeson and flexible pants. 

Her arms were able to soar like wings when needed, her legs able squat and bend swiftly. And soon she was able to bend her body to the way her mind needed it to, like a two-parted machine. 

In her lifetime she had become so equipped to the fact that most people underestimated her and her abilities, and yet somehow this young woman was estimating her so precisely on every matter that all Dany wanted to do was scream and shout into the frigid flat air of Winterfell. 

It had been three days since they began training when finally, Arya gave her a sword. Well not a metal sword, but a wooden one. 

“I’m not a child,” Dany said with a scowl when Arya threw the wooden stick into her hands. The edges were chipped from harsh days of training _ten-year-olds_ and Dany could not feel any more infuriated. 

Yet all Arya did was roll her eyes and sigh, “If you start training with an actual sword, I’ll ending up nicking your precious porcelain skin.” And before Dany could open her mouth enough to retort she grabbed one for herself before positioning herself. “Now lift the bloody sword up.”

~

Dany hated swords. 

She had come to the realization when the damn wooden thing had rubbed against her red palm for the fifth time in 2 minutes. It was annoying for her to not be able to…just figure something out. 

Most things in life she had learned by herself, or with the barest of aid from others around her; reading, writing, speaking the Common Tongue, and even ruling. And yet she couldn’t get the damn pattern of hitting another person with a wooden stick properly. 

At first Arya taught her basics like swinging the sword, but even simple moves like that failed to be done correctly within Dany’s hands and she couldn’t figure it out.

Even Jon had offered to help her out-obviously without Arya’s knowledge-but she had huffed out a refusal. He already had too much on his plate, what with the stubborn Lords sitting idly and uselessly in Winterfell and the rapid production of Dragonglass weapons needed done by the Blacksmiths. 

On top of everything her relationship with Sansa was becoming even more strained than Dany could possibly believe. Her need to bond with the oldest Stark sister was born out of her wish to be at least friendly with the family Jon raved about so much and yet at every point of attempt she either shut Dany down, or Dany had to bite her lip from shouting out her frustration. 

Arya paused mid-stance, glaring at Dany. “Stop being distracted, it’s distracting your own form and mine as well.” 

“Sorry,” Dany shook her head, blinking to focus back on her movements.

And yet every other minute she’d be going back to her last conversation with the Lady of Winterfell. Dany wasn’t foolish enough to not understand how important independence and freedom was to the Northerners after being shackled by a tyrant for years, but she also found it unfair that her own perspective was not being taken into account. 

If the North asked for independence, everyone eventually would, and the very reason Aegon had united the seven kingdoms was to prevent the civil wars that occurred because of their lack of unionizing. On top of that she needed the North to fight Cersei after the battle against the Night King; her soldiers were of a different continent, meaning they needed to be trained in the ways of Westerosi battle for the playing ground to be equal between her and Cersei. 

Yet every time she tried explaining this to Sansa, she’d be met with a solid block of ice that repelled anything she truly wanted to say. 

“Seven hells, what is it?” Arya snapped, patience splitting into two when Dany’s sword flopped into the ground after just the rush of the whistling wind. 

Dany cleared her throat, apologizing before grabbing the sword. Arya was her sister, and no matter the bond that was blooming between her and the youngest Stark, she couldn’t compromise her political strategies and reasons because she needed to train better.

Arya lifted her sword after huffing, only gently prodding Dany’s. “Is it Sansa?” she asked hesitantly, trying to erase her voice from the interest Dany knew was there by straining her gaze of their swords.

Dany bit her lip, before nodding slowly. “We aren’t getting along really.” 

“That’s not very surprising,” she answered back, shrugging. 

“And why is that?” Dany asked, frowning as her sword was half-heartedly moving in her hand. 

Arya paused, actually furrowing her brows in thought before speaking. “I know Sansa doesn’t like admitting this, but I know her very well. And I know after what she’s been through it is…difficult for her to genuinely trust another in most ways.”

Dany felt a spike of what could only assume was possessiveness all of a sudden, swallowing thickly as she observed Arya’s drifting eyes, so similar to the tendency of Jon’s.

The growing comfort at the idea of her bonding with Arya had almost made her forget that she had siblings, people closer than a mere acquaintance, daresay friend, she had made only a week ago. 

She shoved the flood of jealousy with an exhale, stating, “I’ve been through trials too harsh for my own age, and yet I trust my people, I trust my advisors. You can’t live your life disbelieving everyone around you because eventually that distrust will mold into isolation.” She pressed her lips together, frowning. “At least that’s what happened to my own father.” 

Arya shrugged in response, dropping the sword when she realized they weren’t really practicing anymore. “Try to find something in common. She’s not a block of ice, you know?”

Dany narrowed her eyes. “I’d think otherwise,” she joked lightly, making them both chuckle. 

“All you need is to find some kind of common ground-” she raised her brows excitedly, “talk about lemon cakes.”

“ _Lemon cakes?_ ” Dany laughed; brows slightly furrowed. 

Arya tilted her head, now her eyes narrowing. “Sansa adores them, and I saw the way you scarfed down those lemon cakes yesterday. Don’t deny it”

Dany blushed, making them both giggle. There wasn’t much Dany like eating in the North in all honesty, other than the cakes and dried fruits nothing seemed to settle right in her roiling stomach. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t used to their… _unique_ flavours, at least that’s what she consoled to a frowning Jon whenever he interrogated always empty plate. 

They both idly moved towards the storage area, dropping their weapons into the box before Arya sighed, staring at Dany with an alarmingly soft look. 

“What?” Dany blurted, flustered at the adorable curve of Arya’s brow as she crossed her arms across her chest. 

Arya beamed; it was that kind of rare smile that Dany had only witnessed once when they were in the library, the one that made her breathless and suppress the urge to hug the tiny, brave woman. “Nothing,” she bit her lip, looking at her feet before getting to courage to meet Dany’s eyes. She shrugged, “you’re just different.” 

“Good different?” Dany asked with an arched brow, heart fluttering. 

That sweet sweet giggle comforted Dany’s ears like custard against her tongue as Arya said almost shyly, “interesting different.”

~

“Sword up higher,” Arya ordered, hitting her wrist for the umpteenth time. 

Their sweet and warming talks of the day before seemed to have dreadfully crushed under the frustrating reality of Dany’s inadequacy to advance in movements. There seemed to be these drastic bipolarities in how their days would begin, some enveloping with what Dany could only assume was friendship, while others soaked in the snapping of two sleep-deprived and angry people who just wanted to get on with the damn day. 

Today was the latter, unfortunately for them and the workers who slept near the yard.

Dany felt her face turn red with rage and annoyance, teeth painfully digging into her inner-cheeks before she could spit fire at the short woman. She didn’t understand why Arya always hit that spot specifically where her flesh barely covered the bone, when she _knew_ at this point that Dany hated it. 

_Little brat,_ she thought to herself, scowling as she contemplated shoving Arya onto the ground like a toddler, before reluctantly remembering that she was a grown woman, and this was not a bloody playground. 

Taking in a deep breath she lifted the wooden sword, focusing her attention on the motions of Arya’s facial features.

_“You can always tell by a person’s face what they are going to do with their sword. People tend to be so focused on your body’s position that they forget it all comes from the mind. Learn the different expressions, use them to your advantage without letting them figure out your technique.”_

The problem with Arya’s simply-put advice was that Arya never moved her face _enough_ for Dany to recognize her tell. She’d either open her mouth the slightest when out of breath or twist her lips into a suppressed grin when Dany cried out in frustration at dropping the sword yet again.

She lunged forward, compressing her face as best she could as she dipped her sword to the side seconds before Arya could hit it with her left handed-one, the dull thing whacking Arya right off her feet when Dany slapped the flat of it against her shin. 

For a second, she froze, her entire body becoming a stiff rock. Maybe she had been too harsh or grisly, wide violet eyes watching Arya roll on the ground in surprise. 

And _finally_ , Dany got what she could assume the be the look of genuine pride, as Arya realized what had happened. 

She grinned, the smile reaching her face when Dany offered her hand after realizing she hadn’t messed up the ease, they had built around each other. 

“That was…good,” Arya said breathlessly and restrained. Dany could tell she wanted to say more, maybe even laugh with pride as she pressed her lips together, genuinely looking shaken and pleased. 

Dany nodded, stomach bubbling with gurgling delight. “Good.”

~

Something was wrong. 

Dany knew it the moment she had caught sight of Jon’s face across the hallway the evening before. 

His face was creased with distress, lips curved down the way they had once and once only: when Viserion had died. 

She didn’t like thinking of that day, when failure had felt like a heavy anchor impaled right into the centre of her bleeding chest, sinking her deeper and deeper into a cavernous sea of despair and regret. 

She didn’t like even more to think of Jon feeling something along the same lines all over again. It had taken her painstaking weeks on the boat to eradicate that rot from within him, the ever-growing one that made him think, _I did it, I did it, I did it_. It wasn’t hard to empathise with his dread of such a gutting realization, that an innocent died from your hands, when Dany had woken up screaming countless nights just from those thoughts. The sight of Mossador’s brown eyes draining of life with the swift swipe of Daario’s blade, the last word on his trembling lips being _Mhysa_ a ghostly chant penetrated deep within her mind. 

Had that rot resurfaced again? That crushing self-doubt such a terribly cardinal aspect of what made Jon Snow him; a good man, with the heart of a lost boy looking for a home and a name. 

But before Dany could even shift her face into a warm smile, he had snapped his head away the moment their eyes met as if wincing after gazing into the blinding sun. The action had speared Dany, cut a deep gash into her vulnerable heart, rendering her useless, a frozen being in the chaotic hall. 

They had agreed moons ago to talk things out. Being two secluded and easily self-blaming individuals tended to make them separate at the worst of times, deeming their issues to be dead weight for the other, problems lacking the attachment of mortality too minute to speak into existence. 

But being away from each other ended up making things worse, isolation and that eerie chill of loneliness only being a sore reminder that the other was mere footsteps away. So together they had breathed into existence their sacred vow, one more important to Dany than any frivolous soporific words spoken by old men through memory.

“ _My burdens are your burdens, and yours are mine_ ,” Jon had promised against her swollen lips, the days of severance amassing them into two balls of desperation, parched for the touch and warmth of the other. She had repeated back to him through hiccups of tears, his swipe of the thumb against her wet cheeks following an achingly soft thrust into her warmth, the movements and flush skin reminding them that no matter what, no matter how terrible the time they always had each other. 

Two moons later had he suddenly forgotten everything they had confessed to each other? Had those vows meant nothing? 

She had woken up alone in the morning, the chill of his empty side of the bed clenching her aching heart painfully. 

_Something may have happened,_ she reasoned to her foolish, desperate heart. _Eventually he will come back to me, he always does._

That morning she had trained twice as hard and fierce, to Arya’s surprise. Every doubt, every pent up ball of frustration at the frigid gust of chilliness emanating from every Northerners taken out through precise movements of her sword and quick twists of her feet, making her exhausted to the bone by the time the sun peaked fully out of the horizon. 

“Is something wrong? Is it your head again?” Arya asked tentatively, having noticed Dany’s stiffened expressions and deep frown as she settled down beside her on the haystack, catching their breath and wiped the dripping sweat from their skin. She had informed her of her recent migraines, warning her Arya that if she froze suddenly, there was a reason. 

Dany almost waved off the inquiry, the courteous side of her believing it was no business of Arya. But perhaps Jon had confided his troubles to his dear sister, even the idle thought of her place in his life being replaced back to its original owner a sting to her heart. 

She turned her face to Arya, nibbling her lip nervously. “Is something wrong with Jon?”

“No not that I know of.” Arya frowned. “Why, did something happen?” 

Dany couldn’t tell if Arya meant in association to their relationship or their alliance, but she shook her head either way. _He’ll come back._ “No nothing I…nothing.”

Dubious eyes watched her, making Dany squirm on the stringy hay. “Is he brooding again?” Arya’s voice was exasperated but amused, a clear attempt to lighten the dreary mood. 

“More than the usual.”

She hummed in agreement, smiling patiently. “I can talk to him if you want.”

“No,” Dany shook her head immediately, covering Arya’s palm with her own, “we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry just yet.” 

“Okay,” Arya whispered, the hints of doubt drenched within her voice deepening the unsettling dread roiling within Dany before she added lightly, “but you say the word, and I’ll smack him in the head.”

Dany smiled, the worry in Arya’s eyes not lost to her. “Sounds tempting,” she said dryly. They both laughed. 

In the quiet morning they basked in the crisp sunlight, silently observing as the castle erupted with a steady flood of echoing footsteps and chattering. She could tell it was Arya’s way of unwinding; loosening her stiffened body and mind with every quick smile or light laugh a person gave to another across the bustling halls. Or maybe she loved the noise, like Dany, the knowing sound of people a gentle reminder that humanity still existed, that they were still people after all was said and done. 

Jon was one too and he just needed some time. Being dependent on the other to such an extent wasn’t healthy for a solid foundation anyways. Maybe he was busy, too preoccupied by laborious tasks to drag his exhausted body to her chambers during the hour of ghosts. Eventually he’d be back to his side of the bed, soft snores like a symphony battling the spiraling thoughts of her mind, she knew it in her bones. 

_He will come back._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love for these two women is gargantuas, and I hope my mourning heart could somehow show the magic of what this relationship can be. 
> 
> I genuinely hope that everyone feels better eventually from this chaos. At the moment I'm still in the grieving stages so I think I don't really expect anyone else to be feeling anywhere remotely healed. Just know that you're not alone, and that no matter what happens on Sunday Dany will have a happy ending no matter if it's from the show's writers or from fanfic writers. If the people making the show refuse to give her the reward of peace and tranquility after years of servitude and isolation, I guess us writers will just have to do it. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for reading this, drink lots of water, watch some cute puppy videos, and remember remember remember that canon DOES! NOT! have to be accepted in any way, shape, or form. 
> 
> Feel better you beautiful people <333333


	5. A man of honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Defend the king._  
>  Obey the king.  
> Keep his secrets.  
> Do his bidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken more than usual to write this chapter, and for that I am thoroughly sorry. But this conversation, this long-ass chapter is the whole reason I wanted to write this fic in the first place and I so desperately needed to do it right. I still don't know if I am satisfied with it really, but at this point if I prod it anymore my head will explode.  
> Hopefully, you guys can understand the chapter and know what I mean when I say Dany and Jaime never having a conversation in season 8 is may be one of the insurmountably worst crimes dumb & dumber have ever done.

Kingslayer. 

Out of all the possible names, places, or titles that tended to wake the dragon within Viserys, Dany could clearly remember that that name had been one of the strongest triggers. She remembers the way her brother’s face would flush red, and then redder with every venomous word he’d spit out about the man who supposedly murdered and betrayed their father. 

“ _He was a loyal guard, the most important one, and yet he stabbed him in the back,”_ Viserys had said once, voice ragged and angry as they sat near the edge of a cold road, the chill of the night seeping deep into a young Dany’s bones no matter how much she covered herself in the little clothes they had. 

The amount of times Viserys would manically whisper to her that the first to die when they stepped onto the lands of Westeros would be the Kingslayer had eventually reached a point that she could mechanically utter the words under her breath, like a hymn or a song. 

“ _When we take back our throne Dany, when I take what was stolen from us from those filthy-blooded usurpers, I will kill him myself. I will look him in the eyes, those green piercing Lannister eyes, before I rip the beating heart out of his living body. And then I’ll become of slayer of the Kingslayer_.”

When Viserys progressed to take his anger out on her body instead of the chilly nighttime air, when his hair had become stringy instead of silken, violet eyes lined with red and lips trembling with anger, the single utterance of the name began to make her flinch. Her entire system wincing as if to prepare for the ugly yellow and blue patchy bruises she’d find the next day on skin that clothing could cover. 

Most of the men, Robert, Pycelle, Tywin, and the others on the long lists of others who’d betrayed her father, used to cause a simmering rage to boil within Dany. _Nothing was worse than betrayal_ , she had come to believe as the years went by. Even after Viserys had died, the clunk of hardened gold mixed with his melted burnt skin hitting the dusty ground of the Temple of _Dosh Khaleen_ a ringing sound in her ears for days, she still would become angry at the names. Not because of the iron chair they snatched from her, but the family they slaughtered in the process. 

They hadn’t cared for the spilling of innocent blood on the floor of the Red Keep, the pooling crimson she expected Robert to have splattered his foot into as if a puddle of muddy water rather than of young babes. Those men, they had killed her niece and nephew, her sister-in-law though none of them could possibly compromise Robert’s reign. And Jaime Lannister, the supposed protector of the people of King’s Landing, had not prevented it. 

She’d end up wondering during sleepless nights under the Great Grass Sea _why_ , why did he do it? The man who had given up his claim, the Lannister riches, the endless women, _everything_ , to become a loyal servant to her father had somehow managed to surmise the decision to plunge a sword into his back anyways. Was it greed, the exhaustion of constant servitude finally getting to him? Or perhaps he felt the needed to choose family over duty, blindly follow the wishes of his powerful father. 

And then everything changed when she met Ser Barristan. 

Her entire life, her motives, her beliefs of the Westerosi houses suddenly turned upside down. 

_“He burnt men alive with wildfire and laughed as they screamed.”_

The very air around her refused to enter her lungs when she’d heard that. Head dizzy with confusion and heart palpitating angrily. How could it possibly be? Her father was _good_ , a man misunderstood who had been betrayed by the people he deemed trustworthy, the madness of mercy becoming his ultimate downfall. 

He couldn’t be a mad man, _no_ , not him too. 

But the further Ser Barristan had spoken, the more it had made sense. How could it be that a noble, just man be betrayed by so many? Even Ned Stark, the supposed most honourable to ever be, had trusted allies who stayed loyal even after his execution. 

The madness of mercy and compassion could not lead to such troubling ends, no matter how cruel the gods were. So, like spoiled meat, Dany swallowed the ugly reality that yet another member of her family, her legacy, had succumb to some alluded madness that she feared would disease her eventually as well. 

How could she rely on the thoughts and memories of doomed family? How could she find strength to uphold an entire house when the only few people she knows from it all ended up dying through fits of madness or foolishness? 

After knowing she slept even little, and during those insomniac nights of winds whistling through her windows and the chances of a golden-masked man slitting her throat had basically become an inevitability, she’d think of the Kingslayer once more. 

All those questions she had for him seemingly solved with a few whispered words from Barristan’s mouth. Was it wrong for her to not hate him? She could still distinctly remember Vis’s wrath in the aftermath of his name mentioned, yet all she felt was curiosity and a slight tinge of anger. 

Not at the fact that he murdered her father, no, even though the notion of not disagreeing with the assassination of her father unsettled her whirling stomach, she was angry at what his death had caused like thumping dominos. 

His death had led to her family’s decimation, to her mother being enclosed within the confines of the stony-grey walls of Dragonstone at her most delicate months of pregnancy, had led to her big brother losing his innocence and sense of security permanently. 

But then was it fair to blame the man? Perhaps he had well intentions in mind when he shoved that sword into her father’s back. Dany remembers biting her lip harshly at the thought, eyes darkening as she remembered he was a Lannister. 

_Lions prowl under tall grass before gnashing their sharp teeth into the flesh of their prey,_ Viserys had once said, _they show no mercy to the vulnerable and weak._

And then Jaime Lannister entered the gates of Winterfell. 

She had been braiding Missandei’s hair, twisting the thick strand between her fingers as every whispering word that breathed into the world from her sweet friend’s lips, the stress of the day dissolved from her bones while the sun dipped under the horizon to paint the sky of amber, lilac, and a maiden’s blushing cheeks. 

“Do you think you’ll be able to spar with Grey?” Missandei asked, eyeing Dany from the mirror’s reflection. 

She laughed, composing herself before Missandei’s hair could slip from around her fingers. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head with a grin, “I think I’ll need at least five years of practice before I can even attempt to last a minute against him.” 

Missandei hummed, lips quirking suddenly. “Well what about Jon Snow?” she giggled out teasingly. Little did she know that the mention of _that_ name caused Dany to freeze, mouth stiffening into a grim line. 

Dany told Missandei most things since they had become friends, but the sting she felt at Jon’s sudden distance was embarrassing for her, making her in the past days remain mum at the name. Mere weeks ago, she had proposed to him, and a week ago she had come to believe that they were it. Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow, the song that would save the world. 

Worse, every time Missandei tried to gently instigate her troubles out she had to veer the conversation to something else, pretending like she never noticed Missandei’s look of hurt at Dany’s walled-up form. Yet what could she do? Telling Missandei would open up too many vulnerable doors within Dany’s heart, pouring out insecurities that spiraled through her mind. 

_What if he doesn’t want me?_

_Did I do something to hurt him?_

Yet those insecurities would follow with a flare of anger. _I am Daenerys Stormborn. No man can waver me or my mind._ She couldn’t let his distance weaken her, dissociate her; there was too much on the line, too many people’s fates held within her small palms. 

But the heart was nothing if not a fool, because though she had decided to such ideals, firm and confident, when Jon Snow had rushed into Missandei’s room that evening everything had just…melted within her, her heart soaring with joy. He is mine and I am his. 

The sudden barging in had startled them both, making Dany shoot up from her seat behind Missandei before her eyes recognized the bounce of raven curls against his nape. Her mouth gaped open, tender heart brimming to a sudden outpour of hope at his face, as his own brown orbs soften at the sight of her. 

…Which was sorely popped when he spoke. 

“Jaime Lannister has arrived,” he huffed breathlessly from presumably rushing down the halls, dragging his longing gaze away from her before his cheeks reddened. 

Dany swallowed her hurt, hands clasping in front of her. “Good,” she murmured formally. “Have his troops followed in yet, or will they arrive after dawn?” It was better this way, to remember over everything they were allies, partners in this great war they had to somehow survive. 

Jon simply shrugged, eyes drifting away quickly when she narrowed her own with suspicion. “I’m not sure,” he said quickly, clearing his throat before shuffling from one foot to the other. 

She couldn’t tell if he was hiding something from her, or he just didn’t want to be in the same room as her, so she bit her tongue, holding her head up high. “Well then,” she murmured, slowly sitting back down behind an uncomfortable Missandei who looked miserably desperate to leave the tense conversation, “have a warm room and food brought to him. We will speak with him at dawn.” 

Painfully keeping her eyes straight-ahead as if in deep concentration with Missandei’s braid, she swallowed thickly as she eyed from her peripheral vision his form watching her. His piercing gaze only remained on her for a moment, before he stiffened with annoyance, muttering under his breath some pleasantries before storming out of Missandei’s room. 

The muddled storm of thoughts within her mind about those particular set of brown orbs had become so consuming that when the sky bloomed with colour and the creaky halls of Winterfell bursted with life and chatter, the sight of a man with the golden hand caused her to freeze in her seat in the Great Hall. 

From her side she saw Tyrion’s face fall, mouth gaping open as he painfully watched his brother stumbled into the grand room with echoing shackles. 

_He is your Hand, trust him,_ she scolded herself when that slow-sleeping flow of doubt crept into her mind. She knew he had the best intentions in mind when he had planned the meeting with Cersei…. And yet in the back of Dany’s mind she wondered how he it was possible that someone he’s known since birth could surprise him? Siblings were meant to know each other through and through, right? Or perhaps Cersei was just that unpredictable of a broken woman. 

Her observations of her troubled Hand’s face were interrupted when Dany heard Sansa’s calm voice break the dull silence of peering eyes and scowling mouths. 

“Jaime Lannister,” Sansa spoke slowly, a dangerous softness sap-like seeping into her voice when she lifted her chin slightly. Her hands were resting stoically on wooden table, thick and grey woolen dress wrapped perfectly to her pale wrists, lips curve slightly up with an almost infuriating smirk of fascination as she looked Jaime up and down. “Kingslayer.” 

The man in question snapped his head up at the haunting title, mouth opening to sneer out venomous words before he caught Tyrion’s eyes beside Dany. She followed his line of vision intriguingly only to see Tyrion shaking his head profusely, mouthing something Dany didn’t have time to decipher with panicky blue eyes… 

His nostrils flared as he inhaled, squeezing his eyes shut before meeting Sansa’s gaze. “My Lady,” he stated painfully dignified, head lifted high before he nodded towards a distracted Jon and then herself. She could see his tongue thickening with a gaping mouth, eyes widening as he took in the daughter of the man he’d killed. 

Dany had assumed his first reaction would be fear, that’s what all he most likely assumed she had anyways. _The Mad King’s daughter,_ he probably was thinking, _here to continue her father’s dynasty of tyranny._

…And yet all she saw was a glint of fascination. His head was tilted slightly, throat constricting as he swallowed thickly. “Your Grace,” he stammered, voice but a whisper. When he realized he was staring too long his head dipped down, the shock as prominent on his features as the rigid lines of age and a long tiring journey. 

“Why did you arrive in the shadows?” Dany blurted out, surprising everyone around and herself both. To distract from her squirming at the piercing gazes she continued sharply. “My men found you sneaking into Wintertown instead of arriving as planned when the sun was in the sky.” 

He gulped thickly, again glancing in Tyrion’s direction. Dany bit her tongue, irritation sparking within her at their silent conversation. She hated mind games, and time was being wasted. 

“Why would you need to hide behind walls if you call yourself our ally?” Sansa added suddenly, shuffling in her chair to place both clasped hands on the table as she tilted her head with narrowed and suspicious eyes. Stunned, Dany froze before looking in the Lady of Winterfell’s direction. Was Sansa _actually_ agreeing with her for once? From her peripheral vision she could see Jon curl out of whatever shell he had become in the last few hours, shocked as well at his sister’s sudden. 

Dany gulped thickly, dazed as she returned her line of vision towards Jaime. “The Lady of Winterfell asked you a question,” she said sternly, not missing the twitch on Sansa’s lips by her side. 

“I-” Jaime sighed, shaking his head, “I am here by myself.” 

Dany blinked, head cocking back with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Cersei falsely pleaded to send troops up North to help you. She only said yes in the Dragon’s Pit to make sure you leave the city with your armies and use all your forces here.” 

The blood in Dany’s veins suddenly boiled hot and piping, lips scowling as immediately snapped her gaze to glare at a wincing Tyrion. _How many times will he fail me before it becomes my undoing?_

Not only would she end up sacrificing a majority of her army, but she’d only be strengthening Cersei’s forces that were surrounding the city, building those tough walls that would become nearly impossible to bludgeoned through. Yet she could not abandon the fight against the Night King, no, no matter how important defeating Cersei was for the citizen and the future peace of the realm, she could not go back on her vow. She had to defeat him, this disease that stole her son away from her. 

“So, you want me to believe that even though arriving here empty-handed means reduced safety for your fate, you still came?” Dany asked, angry and dubious. Was he truly foolish enough to believe Dany would not realize he was some sort of spy for Cersei? 

Shrugging, he muttered as if the most obvious thing in the world, “Yes.”

“ _Yes_?” Sansa repeated incredulously, scoffing as her fingers tightened around each other. “Not only have you repeatedly caused harm to our families, but you as well dishonoured your own vows to your King.” Dany saw him wince at the last word, eyes down casted and defeated suddenly. “How you could fathom us trusting you after all of these events astounds me,” Sansa finished, shaking her head angrily, thickly gulping.

It stunned Dany to see the tears of her wrath brimming in the stoic Lady’s eyes, her hands trembling in anger in a way she’d never witness beforehand. “You have stood by that mad woman’s side through everything, even when she had murdered countless innocents. And yet you somehow want us to believe that suddenly you want to fight against her.”

Whatever shame he had been feeling died at her words, face lifting with trembling lips. “I know what I have done in the past, and I know the kind of man I have been.” He swallowed thickly. “It would be easy to sit by my sister through this war, let you fight to the death because 100000 of that man-or _thing_ -that I saw could easily wipe out the entirety of the North within two breathes. But I swore and oath, a true and genuine oath to Her Grace, and to the North. Now more than ever I wish to uphold it, no matter if it goes against my sister’s wishes. I’d rather die fighting for the living with honour, than thrive and breathe with a coward’s life.” 

~

They had all been quite stunned after his somewhat moving speech, so silently Dany had commanded the guards to escort him to a more remote area of Wintertown ordering for a bath to be drawn and food be sent to his room. 

The most infuriating part of it all that had occurred within the last few hours was that she couldn’t take him off of her mind, his words and face etched too deeply into her memories. He might be two-timing them; he might have been sent to slit her throat late into the night…or he might be speaking the truth, none of the right answers mattered because she just wanted to know more. 

He unfortunately was one of the only men alive to have witnessed her father’s reign, to have interacted with the last of her family. All she wanted was for him to write down every last detail he could muster of them all, so at least she could create a figment of them in her mind, to appease her restless and aching heart during these lonely nights. 

Stubborn, she had sharply asked Arya to train with her, avoiding the young woman’s curious brown eyes that settled all too long on her when the thoughts overtook Dany’s control of her limbs. 

“Is something wrong?” she murmured hesitantly when they had dropped the now metal swords into a bin. Pretending to not have noticed Dany’s immediate ignorance of the question she sighed, dropping down onto the haystack again. 

When the stare became too much Dany looked her way annoyingly, hoping her glare would cut off any further questions but she of course forgot how stubborn the young Stark was, for she equally met Dany’s eyes before tugging her onto the spot beside her by the arm.

“Is this about the Kingslayer?” her head dipped to watch Dany’s lowered eyes, trying to coerce her. 

Dany nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you angry with him?” 

Her brows furrowed, head lifting. “Why would I be mad at him?”

“Well he did murder your Father,” Arya said incredulously. “Even if my father had been cruel, I’d still hate the man who stabbed him in the back.” 

Her lips pursed as she shook her head, watching Arya tilt her head, confused. “I want to speak with him,” she said as if admitting to a heinous crime. 

“Okay,” Arya chuckled, head shaking, “then go speak with him. You are the Queen, Dany.”

Though that wasn’t really new knowledge to her, it stilled thrilled Dany to know that Arya had accepted her as a Queen, even as a friend, rather than a tyrant hell bent on commanding people to bend to her ways. She didn’t let it show though, the warming of her heart and the unusual warm of being safe around someone, only smiling slightly at Arya’s simple words. “He lived with my family for years, you know?” Arya nodded. 

“More than any man alive he can tell me things about my family, I have in the past only dreamed of and-” she shook her head, throat tightening at the thought, “but I cannot know the good without also learning the bad, the terrible thing they must’ve done in their time. Perhaps…it’s better not to know and keep them as pure and golden in my heart as they are right now than learn it all and see them tainted.”

Arya hummed softly, resting a rough palm on top of Dany’s clenched one. The touch starkly reminded her of Jon’s, like he used to when the corner of her lips dipped down too much for his liking, her heart now beginning to thrum achingly at the thought of him. He loved comforting her, distracting her from the sadness that was constantly only a breath away from her soul. 

“You can still love them and know they have done terrible things.” Arya advised gently, before adding, “you can’t choose who you love, you can’t choose your blood, but you _can_ choose to honour their memories with the truth, rather than a sugared-disillusion.”

“You’re very intelligent.” Dany quipped, quirking her lips. “Arya, The Wise.” She was yet to understand the magic the Stark woman carried within her tiny palms, for the way she could lessen the throb of Dany’s heart and the strain of memories with simple words like spring winds melting a thick slab of ice after a relentless winter, never ceased to comfort and amuse her. 

Arya slapped her arm, attempting and failing at frowning when the creases by her eyes deepened with her giggling smile. “Shut up,” she muttered, biting her lips to suppress the laughter. 

~

When was the last time Dany had ever been this nervous? She couldn’t exactly tell you. 

Her palms were clammy, heart palpitating with lungs desperate for cool gulps of air as she walked in the direction of Jaime Lannister’s room. 

Was stepping into the room going to be the biggest mistake of Dany’s life? The man in it holding a conversation bound to spin her world upside down. Would she step out of the room loathing herself, cursing and wondering why the Gods had filled her many nerves with the red blood of madmen who strived off of their House’s ancient glorious legacy? The House that lived and thrived in the past, wallowed by their own lust for glory and old times. 

Dany took in a deep breath as she placed a palm on the lightly-carve door, her eyes dragging out the seconds by following the lines of the design upon it. 

I need to know, she reminded herself desperately, it is futile dwelling in intoxicating dreams.

“Come in,” he called out after she knocked twice. 

Jaime, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed shot up at the sight of her, mouth gaping as he lowered his head. “Your Grace,” he said shakily, holding onto the bed for support as he dropped down on a knee. 

“No need for that,” Dany waved her hands quickly, stopping him before his knee could make contact with the cold ground. “Sit,” she stated when he froze his form awkwardly, not knowing what to do. 

Jaime took up the spot he had just been in a mere minute ago, watching her silently as she took a turned seat by the fire. 

“What…brings you here, Your Grace?” he asked stiffly, the habit of formality clearly not of repetition for him. 

Dany willed her shaky fingers to halt when she clasped them together tightly, gulping thickly before meeting green, piercing eyes. “I wanted to speak with you about my father.” 

“Oh,” he faltered, as if already knowing where the conversation was going to lead. “I know he was your father and I betrayed-”

“I wanted to thank you.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaime mumbled, dumbfounded and stunned as he watched her. “Oh I-thank you for-”

“Growing up I was told that you were the single most horrible human to ever live, you know?” she started when his fumbling mouth had silenced the room. “Kingslayer, Oathbreaker…all I ever heard about you were these two things: one, that you were the son of the man who betrayed my father and supported the Usurper, and two, you were the one who dishonourably murdered him when he was at his weakest.” 

Jaime shrugged. “Well I guess those are true,” he said meekly, reluctantly. 

“Yes, they are. But those two truths had been covered in a spun of tangled lies for so long within my life, that whenever I heard your name…” her breath hitched at the jagged memories, “I knew the wrath it would evoke from my brother. Waking the dragon, he’d call it.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

She shook her head, sniffling before the emotions got the better of her. “Viserys would always say that you chose family over duty at the end of it, that the need for ‘Lannister gold’ had eventually trumped the sacred oath you had sworn for my Father. He’d tell me stories of how your Father, Tywin, had through whispers and midnight letters, filled the ears of all who had once supported my Father with poison, wanting to have the throne all for himself, until every last man and lord who had a foot in the capital despised Aerys.” She shook her head, laughing sadly. “I wanted to believe my Father had been betrayed… _so_ badly, you know? The moment Vis told me the story my heart had soared because _yes_ , our blood and minds were not the catalysts of our eventual downfall, but our madness of mercy had been. My Father was a hero, a tragic leader who had been too naïve to catch the insidious whispers of those around him. But then I met Barristan in Meereen.” 

The name seemed to surprise Jaime, eyes widening suddenly. “Ser Barristan?” 

Dany nodded, making him even more shocked. 

“I…” he shook his head, “I always assumed he had whisked away to some small island to live a noble and peaceful life after Joff had relieved him of his vows.”

“No, he traveled around the world to find me,” Dany said softly, sadly. “And he told me the truth of the man I had been so convinced was mine, and everyone in the realm’s, hero. He explained to me of the horrors Aerys besmirched onto not just the rebels, but the people who supported him as well.” 

“I wanted….so badly to not believe him, to maintain this glorious image of my Father, but I knew it made sense. So thank you, no matter how long it took...or may take for me to truly accept the horrendous crimes my Father has done, I know it would have festered more if it weren’t for you. ” She suddenly realized she was confessing more than she had intended, making her falter back into her seat, flushed and embarrassed. 

“I’m-” Dany shook her head, stiffening her shoulders to compose herself into a queenly manner, “I apologize for my unbefitting words I…” the words died off when she couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse, which Jaime could clearly tell from his spot, nodding empathetically. 

His tattered and crumpled tunic’s shuffling echoed through the silent room as he debated what to say, opening then immediately shutting his mouth. His fingers ran through his matted and unwashed hair as he sighed. 

“I can’t say many praises for your Father,” he started, bright green orbs hesitantly meeting soft violet, “but what I can say is that he wasn’t always…like that.” Dany could tell he was dancing around the word, the cursed word that hit a particularly sensitive nerve in her heart, mad. 

She shook her head at the implication, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?” 

Jaime sighed, teetering his head from side to side as he contemplated his words. “When I first contemplated the prospect of joining the Kingsguard, I remember the anticipation and utter… _thrill_ I felt at the thought of serving your Father. At that time whispers were going around that he would be the next Jaeherys, peaceful and mindful, the one to make sure the least amount of blood is spilled throughout the Capital, the one to end all wars with order and sensibility.” His lips curved slightly up, a look of nostalgia painting onto his features as his eyes began drifting to somewhere far off in the room. 

“And then?” Dany asked, throat closed and tongue dry. Like the sweetest lemon cake, she was insatiable for more and more, as if her eyes wouldn’t shut till she knew everything, as if her mind would lie awake at night till she knew everything. 

“And then I met him. I remember in the moment thinking, it would be worth it. Angering my father, tainting the Lannister legacy as they squandered to find another suitable heir for the Rock, he would be worth it. He was this tall, powerful being. Like a phoenix, whenever he came into a room his presence was known minutes before his foot entered the area, this enrapturing quality to him at the time that made everything suddenly go silent, as if _look_ , god himself has come. Everyone wanted a taste of him, to get that one beautiful chance to speak to Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, to feel that chill deep in their bones when his booming voice was near them.” 

“He was supposed to bring riches to the country, make the Small Folk remember why the Targaryens created a dynasty.” The twinkle on his face died suddenly, frown creasing the dips on his face to make him look older, somber and painfully wise.

“No one really knows what happened,” Jaime whispered as if speaking with to a babe, the caution in his voice as haunting as the whistling cries and songs of dancing ghosts in the nights. “It was like…like venom had drop by drop entered into his mind. My Father was beginning to worry more. He never really spoke of it to us really, but you could see it in his constant frown, the lines of his forehead deepening and deepening with each passing year. Aerys started speaking less, started worrying more. Of what? The Seven Gods wouldn’t even know probably. He began sporadically making decisions, not even telling my Father, who had supposedly been his dearest friend. The yearly visits to the other 6 Kingdoms suddenly were halted, not even Rhaella or Rhaegar’s heirs were allowed to step out of the castle without his knowledge. Taxes were raised severely, to the point that the loafs of bread were being deemed items of luxury. Father even tried stopping him, the Council tried making him heed to their desperate pleas, listen to his people, _listen_ to the people who are trying to fix this mess. But-but it was like someone was whispering things into his ears or something, poisonous words that were killing people by the minute.” Jaime stopped, gulping in deep breaths after having forgotten for many minutes. His hands were trembling, Dany noted, but she wasn’t one to judge because so were hers. 

Jaime’s adam’s apple bobbed deeply. “If the younger Jaime had known that one day Aerys Targaryen himself would knighted him, he might have just fainted with happiness at the mere thought. But when it happened, I wanted nothing more than to run the other way, to take all the titles my Father had attempted to persuade me into taking countless times. I swore a vow, an oath to protect him and his family… and every day, every day the more horror I saw him make people feel in his final years, I had to recite those words to myself. When I saw his eyes gleam at wretched Pycelle’s mention of wildfire I whispered, _obey the King, defend the King._ I tried reminding myself that I had a duty to him and the realm, but when I saw the flesh and bones of countless people melt into a pile of grey ash, I realized those two things I had duty towards were very different. I’d either have to protect the King or protect the realm. Even today I would choose the ladder.”

It took Dany a good few minutes to form a solid sentence, the very air haven being sucked out of her body with his every word. He had been merciful enough to leave out the more violent details of her Father’s crimes, but it was enough anyways. 

He had been a monster, a tyrant who fed himself the despair of the people he was supposed to serve, to better. Perhaps the gods had flipped the coined when he had first drawn breath, or perhaps Aerys himself had chosen that fate, sealed his destiny and of the family he’d end up destroying; the ambiguity of it all would haunt Dany to her very last day but till then the questions would evade her some restful nights of sleep.

She licked her dry lips, clasping her trembling hands together tightly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 

Jaime looked up at her with a gaping mouth, only catching himself after realizing his stare was lasting more than a courteous amount. “Thank you,” he managed to mumble out. His voice was genuine, an almost pride twining within his words before he quickly added, “What I faced was nothing, really. Others had it much worse than me for far longer.” 

“Like who?” Dany asked curiously. 

Jaime paused. The way he hesitated was unnerving her, as if he was seconds away from informing her of a death. “Rhaella,” he said simply. 

The one word was enough to knock the very breath out of Dany, rendering her ashen and petrified from her heart to the tips of her pale fingers. She could stomach learning her father’s horror inflicted on people she didn’t know, though terrible, a fact. But the mere thought of understanding the pain that her Mother had suffered through, imagining the eyes she believed were so much like her own flooded with grievous tears…it was too much. If she heard even one word she’d break, Dany knew it. The kind of melancholy that would wash over her mind, soul, and heart would never be able to be cleansed by anyone, but the woman she so dearly ached to see with her own eyes, touch warmly with her fingertips, but never would, till the release of death was finally inflicted upon her. 

It was important to see truth in the eyes, yes. But no one really spoke of the wounds those truths caused on people, the kind of stinging, gaping, unhealable wounds that only ever dulled of their pain after death, after the soul was tugged out of the body.

So, Dany shook her head. Quickly, vehemently, and childlike, as if pleading to not have to eat that particularly foul vegetable. “No,” she stopped him with a quivering whisper, the tears she had kept at bay threatening to pour down her face till her heart drowned in the cavernous, void-like sorrow. “Not today,” she begged. There was only so much she could take in one day, only so much she could look back at before her mind strayed from logic and hope, tangling in her a thick shiny spun of grief and tragedy. 

Dany hadn’t realized Jaime’s eyes were shining as well till she managed to meet them after a few seconds of straightening out her breathes, reminding herself who she was, who she’d never become so help her Old Gods and the New. He nodded slowly, understanding how intoxicating and poisonous the past could be, bathing in it too long having only led him into a drunken state of utter despair far too many times. 

“Alright,” he murmured soothingly, and if it weren’t for the fact that he was the man who had stabbed her Father, if it weren’t for the fact that he was the man who had been born with a limb pressed into the skin of the woman she had yet to defeat, and if it weren’t for the fact that she was the Queen, responsible not only for her own people but the people of Westeros as well now, Dany believed he would’ve taken her into his arms. 

Perhaps he would’ve, had his hand never shoved that dagger deeply into her Father’s back, if he had been a coward who blinded his morality by the sworn oaths of a servant. Perhaps Jaime Lannister would have been like a big brother to her, or a father, someone who not only would guide her into adulthood, but would adamantly make sure her choices drastically veered away from the venomous ones of the family before her. 

Daenerys moved out of her seat silently. They were both intoxicated by the sea of doubt, wonders, and memories of what happened and what could have happened because of that one fateful night to maintain cordelles; she just hoped he wasn’t an addict to it yet. 

But when her steps led her to the door, one hand pressed flat onto the splintering wood, Dany felt the need to turn around overcome her. “Ser Jaime?” 

Jaime lifted his head, blinking out the inebriate look of reminiscing enough to meet her eyes, “yes?” he managed to murmur out. 

She gulped thickly, nibbling on her upper lip before saying the words in the most unadulterated way she had deemed possible, because the world may claim him as a Oathbreaker, a treasonous Kingslayer, but all Dany truly saw in those sad green eyes was a man who tortured himself in the battle between duty and justice, a man grieving of the repercussion of a betrayal he had the moral obligation to enact; a man lost. 

“You are an honourable man.”

Dany wasn’t naïve enough to assume her words would be the catalyst to navigate his mind finally into a place where his choice from many years ago would not keep him up late at night, that he would not be tortured constantly by the foul noun, but the look of genuine pride, of unadulterated relief stricken on his tired face was more than enough for her, like a cool chunk of ice being a balm for a scorching, unchecked and festering wound. 

“Thank you,” he managed out, the the devastating alleviation and waver in his deep voice not lost to Dany, “thank you so much, Your Grace.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys liked the chapter!!! Next one is going to be oh so tortuous I CAN'T WAIT FOR YOU TO READ IT! •̀ᴗ•́  
> Thank you again for being a community that not only supports nervous writers like me, but uplifts us to write things we lazily only dreamed of. <33333333333333
> 
> ps. season 8 is still not canon bitch!!!!!!!!!! the Night King killed everyone, and that's the way I want to believe the show ended.


	6. And words are futile devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon walks to the door, ready to spend yet another night the courtyard sparring with a willing Unsullied soldier till his arms feel numb. But he stops, fists furling as he turns to meet Sam’s sad eyes. It’s a loathing statement, he knows, but he can’t help the way is continues to paralyze his thoughts, fester within his poor heart.
> 
> “My birth was not worth her demise, Sam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV change! Jonny boy hears some stuff, and really wishes he had stayed on that damn boat.

When he woke up the next morning he could barely breathe, the very air knocked out of him at the memory. 

It was a memory, and not a dream, a cruel and relentless dream that would break to reveal a sleeping Dany; her skin smooth and pale, fluttering eyes a sight to see in the waking morning. The realization crushed him, tightening his throat, watering his stinging eyes.

_You’ve never been a bastard._

_You’re Aegon Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne._

The words were haunting as those of a woman kissed by fire, the life draining out of her body and acceptance settling in her eyes as she murmured the words. You know nothing Jon Snow. Words that had crept their way into his waking nightmares, made him bellow out scream after scream in the eerie nights of Castle Black, his wobbling lips begging his mind to stop the images, stop the pain, stop everything. 

After these many years, he had sagged in relief assuming that nothing could possibly torment him like those words every again, though the nightmares still rendering him nights of evaded sleep, nothing like the ones after her death, after his own death. 

And yet here he was again, sweat and raven curls matted onto his forehead and chest, lungs thirsting for some tranquility and ease of breath. 

His life was a lie. No, his entire existence was a lie, an existence that had ignited a civil war, killing thousands upon millions. Being a bastard had been a hard substance to swallow, to accept, but after two decades he’d come to terms with his origins, accepting the fact that while he was a Stark in more ways than other, he’d never be able to paste that title behind his first name. He understood he’d never be Jon Stark, and in fact, he almost appreciated it. 

People tended to underestimate bastards, never displaying false pretences and courtesies in front beings considered lowly and unworthy. It made it easier to so surprise such people, ignorance being the most vulnerable weakness of man, an easy target for the sharp-minded.

And now he was told that that was a farce, a ruse devised by his father-Ned- to hide the true heir, the product of an illicit affair. 

Jon huffs, rubbing a rough palm up and down his face, already exhausted just from the thought of another incessant day of Northern dissent. It was becoming taxing trying to uphold these Lords in his mind, to remind himself though they were stubborn they were as well hearty and honourable when their arguments were maddening. 

_If we listen to her now, we’ll never be able to have a voice again._

_Targaryens are tyrants; madness runs through their veins right along with their incestuous blood._

_We did not let you go south to be seduced by a foreign invader!_

Jon rolls off of his rumpled bed, the ache is his bones causing him to groan as he walks to grab his shirt off of the bench, the action letting his eyes wander to the uncrumpled portion of his bed. He freezes, the chill on the other unused half a sore reminder of the woman with silver waves of water and amethyst orbs who was evading his every single thought.

His lips purse when he closes his eyes, thinking of a better time. There she was, skin flushed, and swollen lips curved up with a soft smile as they whispered stories of their past late into the hour of the ghost on the very same bed. He remembers the child-like whine that had escaped his throat when the first chirp of birds echoed through his glassed-window, scowling when she laughed and teased his brooding. 

Jon’s eyes opens as he sucks in a painful gulp of air, the room pin-drop silent if not for Ghost’s slow and soft breathes in slumber. It feels like a cruel joke. Her, having been in that exact same spot mere days ago, bringing to life a once dull and cold chamber only for it to be snatched away from him once again, as if reality had thrown ice-cold water onto his dream-like moments with her. 

_There is no time,_ he scolds himself, there were things that needed to be done, duties he had to fulfil. He couldn’t just lie around and wallow in his sadness forever, he reminded himself, not when there was an imminent doom lurking right at their doorsteps. Not when so many were counting on him and his resilience. 

_Duties_ , he chants, _I have duties_. 

~

Looking at her is harder than he had expected. Not even looking per se; rather sneaking longing glances across halls, across rooms, across great tables. 

She is a beauty. It’s not a fact that has dawned upon him just now, but seeing her from afar rather than near lets him observe her even more; her power, her intelligence, her strength, let him see what people not close to her must witness in her presence. 

More than him for sure, she is persistent on making sure the North accept her rule, either begrudgingly or joyfully, it was truly up to them. 

Jon watches from afar, sometimes with an overwhelming amount of pride that jabs him right in the chest and sometimes with a severe ache hollowing out his chest at the thought of people not respecting her, appreciating for her being. He observes her. Shoulders stiffened, chin jutted high up, and amethysts hardened and pertinacious. Mind like Ice after being sharpened and taken care of, quick to retort the venomous and seething words of the men with a slight and infuriating smirk with the confidence that had cast its spell on him many moons ago. 

But as well he gets to witness her softening, that thick and hardened shell that forms whilst in the presence of strangers dissolved in mere moments of being in the space of people she loves. He sees it when Missandei comes up to her seat after a particularly heated gathering in the Great Hall, her shoulders slackening, eyes melting into a gentle lilac when setting upon the Naathi woman. 

Missandei murmurs something that brings a flush onto her lovely neck, making her snap her gaze in the direction of the wickedly grinning advisor, mouth furiously moving while she turns redder and redder. 

She’s smiling, he realizes, it takes over her face after Missandei retorts something lazily, sitting back in the chair beside her to observes amusedly. It’s so soft and sweet that all he wants to do is bathe in its delight. His heart constricts, body freezes as he sees her cheek hollow-in to gift him with the sight of her deep dimples, so beautiful, so Dany, that all he wants to do is devour and savour-

His drunken thoughts are shattered when her gaze suddenly meets his, easy and relaxed, a privilege he knew he shouldn’t take for granted. But instead he sheepishly backtracks, stumbling out of his chair to rush out of the stifling room before she can murmur out even more than a “ _Jon_.”

It’s cowardly. He knows that. It brings a rush of shame to envelop him as he walks and walks and walks, making him curse under his breath to himself. He doesn’t care about duties in the moment, not when every thought rattling his brain makes his heart constrict painfully. 

When had he become a man who runs from the truth? A man too timorous to look a person in the eyes. 

_Your name, your real name is Aegon Targaryen._

~

He walks alone at night, strolling like a madmen along darkened corridors with a million thoughts spiralling within his mind. Before he can even curse himself, he realizes he has reached the queen’s chambers, the forbidden _her_. Her unsullied make way for him, having understood after Dany’s umpteenth time of relieving their worries by speaking gentle words in High Valyrian on the boat ride. 

“No, _no_!” Jon whispers in panic, shaking his head while his brain scavenged for the right word in the foreign tongue. “D-daor daor!” he yelped desperately. 

Through the many moons he had learned some of its vast vocabulary, having heard her repeat them on so many occasions that the context began to fit like puzzle pieces, they were unfortunately what the North would call… _unorthodox_. The image of the foreign words escaping her swollen lips during their heights of passion making Jon flush, flounder around, as he rushes down the corridor before her guards can inform her of what happened, begging his mind to stop replaying the image of her swaying hips and arched, sweat-sheened back.

“Seven hells I really need a drink...” he mutters, already prepared for the sleepless night. 

~

Like a plague he begins isolating himself from everyone really, not just the woman in his constant thoughts till he only speaks words to Ghost. 

He hadn’t realized how much he missed his companion, his dearest friend, until after arriving back at Winterfell and being leapt on by the mammoth amount of white fur. The memory of Ghost relentlessly licking every crevasse of his grimacing face was the only thing to coerce his lips to curve up, if only the slightest. Maybe it was because Ghost was so much like him, silent, observant as he watched people go about with their chores and duties that he only felt comfort with him. Or perhaps it was the crippling loneliness they both felt while in the presence of people they loved so dearly, too many things walling them off. 

When the suffocation of hundreds of the Great Hall gets to him, the curious eyes of strangers and the mourning eyes of the ones he loves peering at him as if he hasn’t noticed closing his throat, making his heart pound and face flush with pain, as words chant in his skull like a hammer slamming against his bone, _you’re a fraud, you’re not a Stark, you’re not our brother, you’re nothing you’re nothing you’re nothing,_ he often rushes out of the stifling room, gulping down cold and delicious servings of the frigid air as he begs his heart to calm for once. Ghost’s soft fur and gentle nips become his serendipity of a balm, the sight of his deep and shiny crimson eyes watching him curiously the only anchor to sanity when he thinks his head will burst from the thrumming tension within.

“Thank you boy,” he croaks when Ghost licks furiously at his tears, as if commanding the fat droplets from escaping his stinging eyes. Ghost coos, nudging Jon’s palm to follow him as they make their way to the Godswood; it was maybe the only place in Winterfell where he felt like his heart wasn’t being twisted and jabbed by sharp steel, like stiff and ironed fingered weren’t tightening around his throat till his eyes went red. 

If he wasn’t so miserable, he’d laugh, perhaps at his fate or the sheer irony. A Targaryen, seeking solace under the red leaves of the Old Gods with his direwolf, praying against all to forget the haunting words. 

_You’re the last Targaryen. The heir to the Iron Throne._

~

In his craze he barges into the library one night, knowing Sam would be nose-deep in yet another book there.

“Why?” he barks, startling Sam from his entrancement, “why Lyanna?” 

Sam furrows his brows. “Jon? What are you doing up so late?”

“Just answer the bloody question,” he snaps, dragging a chair back to drop himself onto. 

Sam squirms, hesitantly closing his book before meeting Jon’s heated gaze. “They fell in love, Jon.” He says the words as if it should solve all of his insomniac thoughts and terrors. When he sees his friend’s clear dissatisfaction, he sighs. “It was a secret affair. No one-at least of what Bran has informed me-had known about it.”

Jon swallowed thickly, starving for something he couldn’t quite articulate. “Did it begin in Harrenhal then?”

“Well,” Sam tilts his head, “I believe it was around that time, yes.”

“How old was she?” his voice is crackly, sore and parched. 

“Most likely 16? Perhaps 18.”

The number makes his throat suddenly dry, his head falling into the cradle of his hands as he groans. “Gods, she was just a child Sam. A young girl!” 

Had Rhaegar seduced her? Had he given her false promises of a different life that any young girl would become spell bounded with? Jon feels suddenly dizzy. The prospect of his mother possibly being corrupted by sweet words and beautiful eyes, having led to her demise so horrifying he thinks he might never sleep again. 

Was he the product of Lyanna’s huge mistake? What if…what if she loathed Jon? He was after all the reason she had been imprisoned in a bed for nine moons.

He feels a hand rest on his crouched shoulder. “Jon,” Sam starts softly, hesitantly, “she was old enough to make her own-”

“She was a young girl!” he bellows, unfurling out of his ball to glare at Sam, throat aching and wobbly. “He knew she was just a young woman, a pawn for whatever crude desires of his, and he snatched her up when he could!” His eyes are watering yet again, breath huffy and shaky as he croaks. “He had a family, Sam.” 

Sam purses his lips sadly, nodding. “He did,” he whispers. 

“He had a wife, and two children!” Jon shakes his head incredulously, the anger spiking within his heart, “He had people who relied on him and loved him, and he-he pushed them aside for what? Some scandalous affair with someone so much younger than him? What kind of dishonour must a man have to be able to go through with something like that! To abandon his kin, people he swore an oath to!” At least being Ned’s bastard had had some moments of relief. When Jon looked at his younger siblings and Lady Stark, he knew that at least Ned had never broken his vows ever again, and that he protected his family with his every fiber. Rhaegar had forgotten his children, his wife, and house for the love of a Stark woman. 

“I know,” Sam speaks sadly, “but at least you now know that your parents truly did love each other?” 

Jon scoffs, the image of a bled-out young woman savouring her last few gulps of breath before death stole her away cruelly appearing in his mind. It makes his blood pulsate with rage. 

“He killed her,” he states, no emotion left in his voice as he slouches into the chair. “He killed my mother, and then caused his other wife and children to be murdered as well. What is so great of them falling in love when it caused the demise of thousands?”

“Jon-”

“No,” he whispers, the flooding tears now falling down his stubbled cheeks, “they were careless. They were selfish and foolish and left the whole fucking country to deal with its aftermath.”

Sam sighs. “What were the words Maester Aemon told you?” Jon looks up, surprised at Sam’s sudden remembrance of their old and wise maester. 

He blinks, head lolling on the edge of the chair as he stares up, the candles creating dancing silhouettes against the ceiling like ghosts dancing in the halls. There were very few times that he dreaded a day like the one. They had so few Brothers left to fight with, and the prospect of having to see Ygritte’s blue eyes slowly drain of life, caused his stomach to roil for days, leaving him with little of an appetite to eat. 

He remembers Aemon’s milky eyes, skin so thin that it barely covered his brittle bones, almost translucent and ghost-like. His small and trembling hands that would pat Jon with such power and resolute that it shocked Jon sometimes of how a man so frail could embody so much knowledge and strength. 

“Love is the death of duty,” Jon whispers. If he closes his eyes, he can almost hear Aemon’s resounding yet soft voice echoing the words, muffling the sound of a hundred panic-filled men frantically gathering weapons, all believing that that night was the end of the Night’s Watch. 

Sam nods, smiling softly. “Exactly. Perhaps their decision was…foolish to say the least, but I don’t believe for one moment that they had an ill-wish for others in mind when they eloped.”

Jon humms; mind still entranced by Aemon’s gentle words as he traces the silhouettes with his tired eyes. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, “but that still does not excuse the damage they caused for others. Their duties towards others was of paramount importance and…” he swallows the ache in his throat as he suddenly rises, again the air of the room stifling him. Jon walks to the door, ready to spend yet another night the courtyard sparring with a willing Unsullied soldier till his arms feel numb. But he stops, fists furling as he turns to meet Sam’s sad eyes. It’s a loathing statement, he knows, but he can’t help the way is continues to paralyze his thoughts, fester within his poor heart. 

“My birth was not worth her demise, Sam.” And before his friend can protest, and begin to shut the dark notion out, Jon has already left, desperate to numb the agony and pain throbbing from his toes all the way to his heart. 

_She died in a puddle of her own blood, her last strained breathes used to chant the words desperately. “Promise me, Ned. Promise me.”_

~

His feelings in the last weeks ranged only from anguish to anger, tittering between the two extremes with the smallest triggering of thoughts. 

Why hadn’t he told him? 

The question haunts him like the millions of others spiralling in his mind. Had he told Jon, maybe he wouldn’t have lived such a miserable childhood, aware of the reality of the world at far too young of an age. Perhaps he’d have even been a happy boy, living a blissful life with the knowledge that though his mother had died, she had loved him with her every breath. 

Dammit, he would’ve known that he wasn’t a mistake at least. 

Mistake, that was the word that taunted him throughout his entire childhood, made tears well up in his brown eyes to his chagrin.

 _You’re the honourable Ned Stark’s one mistake,_ he’d taunt himself when he felt the haughty looks of lords scowling down at him in the Great Hall from his hidden seat in the corner. _You’re the product of her husband’s infidelity_ , he’d shout at himself when Lady Stark’s piercing blue eyes managed to land on him for more than a second, before they hardened, loath making her lip stiffen into a straight line. _You’re a taint_ , he felt at gatherings, smiles dying when Jon came in sight of noble lords and ladies. _You’re not their brother,_ he’d believe when Sansa’s young eyes watched him pitifully, the conflict between listening to her mother and loving him the way Arya did making her scramble away at the sight of him. _You’ll never be him;_ Jon would curse when he saw Robb’s red curls bounce when Ned chucklingly pulled him to his side in the Great Hall, voice loud and booming as the Lords cheered at their future Warden.

Twenty-two years of loathing himself, wishing he could run away, wishing he had never been born, all for nothing. Had Ned told him, perhaps he could’ve had Catelyn’s love, the love he cried himself to sleep for during nights when he was shivering with cold, begging, _begging_ for those arms to warmly curl around him and whisper nurturing words as he’d seen her do for Robb. 

The thought makes Jon’s eyes sting as he silently pulls on loose strings of his bed’s clothing, the seams opening and opening and opening. How many people would have been happier had he broken his promise once, just once, to be truthful to his wife? 

_You’ve never been a bastard._

~

When he sees Arya and Dany sparring one morning, his mouth becomes dry. 

He had fallen asleep in the crypts, stinging eyes having gazed at Ned’s statue for so long that before Jon knew it they had drooped shut, making him jolt awake hours later to the harsh cawing of crows, mouth slipping out a yelp at the way his body ached with stiffness. 

Not being able to meet the eyes of anyone just yet he had hurried out of the eerie tunnels to escape once again into his room, wondering with furrowed brows where Ghost must’ve wandered off when he heard the soothing sound of metal clashing with metal, the clink instantly reminding him of simpler days in Castle Black where nothing kept him up at night but the feeling of his grip on the Brother’s slipping away with his every sentence of support for the Free Folk. 

He’d assumed that it was some insomniac Unsullied who only waited for the moon to disappear before rising to work yet again. Many of them eyed him curiously when he requested to join in for their training, having been used to him using them as an excuse to learn more about their Mhysa. 

But when he veers away from the halls with Winterfell’s rooms and walks towards the courtyard his sleepy eyes land upon Dany blocking a lethal blow to her left hip with the swing of her now steel sword. His heart twists at the sight. He remembers her childish squeal of excitement, like an old lullaby, when she had informed him one evening of Arya finally letting them begin to practise with wooden swords, the twinkle in her violets and dip of dimples making his heart flutter with joy and pride. Now she has excelled to a steel sword and he missed it. 

Jon curses under his breath. Both because he is angry, he missed the chance at witnessing her transcending her skills with the sword, but as well missing the chance to see her jump with joy and the sight of a non-wood sword for once. 

A harrowing thought creeps into his mind suddenly, making him grimace in horror, acidic bile rising in his throat. What if he had lost the lost the privilege to see that side of her? 

The worst part is that he can’t even be angry if it is true, he’s neglected her so long. Does he even deserve to be her friend anymore, after all he’d done? 

Jon must’ve leaned too much into the light in his thoughts, for suddenly he hears his name being called. 

“Jon?” Arya calls again, breathless as she lowered her sword curiously, “what are you doing here?” 

But Jon was barely listening to her, body frozen like concrete as he terrifyingly watched Dany pause her movements, shoulders stiffening profusely at the mention of his name before slowly turning around. 

He didn’t know what he was expecting. What, that she’d drop her sword and rush into his arms, letting him catch her bottom lip between his as if nothing happened? If he did, he was a fucking idiot. 

Dany’s shoulders were rising and falling as her long silver braid swayed against the small of her back. Thin wisps of curly hair were sticking to her neck and forehead with sweat, the sight so powerful and arousing that his breath hitched. 

Her eyes met his through thick and sooty lashes, the colour of her orbs jolting him with a sudden flash of warmth and comfort before he saw how quickly they shifted from hurt to anger. Her mouth stiffened into a straight line; the corners dipped down into the type of frown he’d never in his nightmares expected to be directed towards him. 

It was then that the realization hit him, like a jagged hammer hitting his heart, lined with sharp and thick nails as they lodged deeply into his flesh. Dany was looking at him, as she had the first time they met. 

His throat tightened. He had let her slip away so far away foolishly. Shattered the moons of careful and loving care he had put into making her open up to him. And now it was like she was a stranger once again, a hardened Queen who watched him cautiously, and nothing more. 

He blinked away, attempting to cover the fact that his eyes were all watery again and that he couldn’t stand another moment of seeing her so cold. Clearing his throat, he spoke huskily, “I was just walking around. Thought I’d heard some Unsullied practicing and…” his words died off. He was looking at Arya, but he could feel Dany’s molten gaze burning hole into the side of his body, making him squirm.

Jon followed Arya’s gaze as she slowly looked between him and Dany, head tilted to the side curiously. “Well what are you standing there for? Come, join us,” she said, waving him over. 

“I-” Jon shook his head, panicking as he saw Dany stiffen even more at the prospect of being near him in the moment, “I don’t want to intrude. You two are already in the middle-”

But suddenly Arya was tugging him by the arm into the yard, making him grimace as he watched Dany scowl angrily not at him but Arya, her lips murmuring curses under her breath. 

“Anyways, I needed your help with something,” Arya spoke calmly, as if she was oblivious from the clear tension twisting between the two monarchs. She dipped her arm into a box to grab another sparring sword, throwing it in the air for Jon to catch. “I need you to help me teach Dany this particular move.” 

Jon’s head spun with whiplash for two reasons: one, because his baby sister was calling the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms Dany, and two, because she somehow believed Dany would be willing to work with him when her eyes were practically stabbing him with a sharp blade. Either he was dreaming, or he had truly isolated himself just enough to miss their blooming friendship.

He shook his head again, wondering why Arya wanted to torture him. “Arya, I don’t think it’s wise for Her Grace to be sparring with her Warden when-”

“I think I’ll decide what is and what is not wise for me, my lord,” Dany clipped. Jon snapped his head in her direction, blinking in surprise at her willingness to even speak in his direction.

He gaped; mouth dry again. “If-if Her Grace would like to-”

“Great,” Arya clapped her hands together with an infuriating amount of cheeriness, “sword up, Dany.” 

Jon watched, amazed as Dany’s body quickly morphed to a defensive position, like a soldier, like a warrior princess. Had he been watching from the side he might’ve tripped with wonder. 

“Jon,” Arya snapped, annoyed as she poked him with the dull edge of her sword, “focus.” 

“Yes-yes,” he stuttered, clearing his throat.

She rolled her eyes swiftly. “Alright. You know that move you do,” Arya spun her leg to swirl, dragging her sword sharply in the air at the same time, “I think Dany would be able to capitalize such a move. I tried teaching it, but I’m left-handed to it’s a little tricky. Can you…” she motioned her head in Dany’s direction, making Jon slowly meet the woman in questions eyes. He expected her to shout out a venomous protest, but was surprised to see her inhale deeply, nodding as she shut her eyes. Nervously he looked between the two before seeing Arya’s nod of encouragement before shuffling awkwardly a step near Dany. 

Raising his sword with both his hands he hesitantly spoke, “O-okay you need to position your arms to put all your strength into your left side.” He motioned with exaggerated steps of how her feet need to be, as Dany observes carefully with furrowed brows, straightening her back as she attempted to mirror his body. 

Her arms were right, but legs were tittering slightly. “No, you need to-” he pointed to her left crouched leg, “this one needs to be pushed into the ground more the right, it provides leverage for you to turn a little.” 

“That makes sense,” she nodded twisting her foot a little more into the muddy. 

Jon smiled, “Perfect. Now push off of your left leg and spin.” Dany did as told, jumping into the air with a tall spine like a swan, landing back on her feet gracefully. Jon’s breath hitched. How could someone be so powerful and graceful all at once? 

“Well?” Dany asked, hands on her hips, looking between him and a grinning Arya. 

“Amazing,” Jon spoke a little too softly, pretending to not see her falter slightly at the words as he blinked. “Now you need to diagonally motion your sword across your body,” he twirled, but this time swinging the sword with him. He stopped, heart fluttering at the way her eyes lingered on his bobbing throat, a pretty red blush creeping up the neckline of her shirt when she realized she had been caught. 

“Alright then,” she blurted out, flustered before distracting herself with the motion. 

A rush of pride flooded his body at how much progress she had managed to have in just two moons. But then again, he’d be foolish to believe that Daenerys Stormborn was capable of not excelling in any task she put her heart and soul into. Dany soared into the sky, slashing so deadly with her sword that he was glad it was a dulled blade, for her hit would’ve been lethal.

Jon felt Arya arm nudge him, a grin creeping her face as she jutted her chin with pride in Dany’s direction, the two of them watching her practice the motion over and over, perfect each time. He nodded, pursing his lips and Arya grinned even more, the look of fulfilment on her face as she watched Dany making him actually break into a smile after what seemed like forever. 

“She’s good, isn’t she,” Arya whispered, laughing softly. 

Jon nodded, elbowing her side. “Probably because she has a great teacher like you around.” 

He expected her to scoff humbly but she only smirked, nodding. “I _am_ a great teacher,” she gloats, chin raised. Jon’s head tilts back, a laugh cracking his demeanor as Arya jabs him as if offended. 

“What’s so funny?” Dany asks, voice much nearer than he had expected. Her violet eyes startle him. While her face was emotionless, he can see the slight fattening of her pupils. She quickly averts her gaze back to Arya, swallowing thickly. 

Arya briefly meets his eyes mischievously before shaking her head. “Nothing.” She grabs her and Dany’s swords, dropping them into the box before tugging the Queen of the Seven bloody Kingdoms as if a drinking buddy to her side. Dany scowls playfully, lips failing to hide the imminent giggle as she ruffles Arya’s hair in the way Jon knew she hates, eliciting an irritated giggle out of his baby sister. 

The image is so beautiful that Jon’s heart wants to burst. All he had wanted was for his siblings to make Dany feel welcomed, to invite her into their loving family, one she had ached for, for so long. It felt like a cruel joke, the very prayer he’d whisper into the darkness of the boat coming to fruition, only for it to be when his life was at its most miserable point. When he was as far from Dany as he could possibly be. 

Arya caught sight of his lowered and sullen face, smiling sadly as she speaks. “You want come eat with us?” she asks, having asked the question every day since he had begun closing himself off. 

He almost says yes, eager to hear how Daenerys Stormborn has become friends with Arya Stark, but he sees Dany’s face, the obvious anger still remnant on its features. It isn’t fair for him to suddenly want to be part of something that he had purposefully closed himself off of, intruding. So, he swallows, smiling sadly to match Arya’s before shaking his head. “No,” he speaks, seeing Dany’s hardened features soften at his tone, “you two go. I’ll eat a little later.” 

His little sister opens her mouth to say more but doesn’t. And maybe that is why he loves her so damn much; she knows him better than anyone in the world.

Arya gives a bittersweet smile, eyes setting on him for a moment before she turns, heading for the Great Hall, where the scent of sausages and eggs makes Jon’s stomach churn. 

He turns to leave, ready for a day of sitting miserably with the images of Dany’s hair swinging in the air like leaves, breathless with her cheeks flushed, a smile of determination painting her lips when he sees her staring, lips pursed. 

Dany steps forward hesitantly, the anger from moments ago suddenly dissipated from her features. She looks so soft, tinged with inklings of melancholy; the violets of her eyes shiny as she gazes upon him with concern. The déjà vu-like feeling of being back in the dark and glimmering cave with a smouldering torch suddenly making his throat constrict. 

A gentle palm rests upon his cheek and Jon can’t breathe, his skin burning and flushing under her touch. He hadn’t realized how much he was starving for the feeling of being near her presence. 

Her eyes roam over his tired face slowly, before she hesitantly speaks. “Thank you,

she starts, before adding lightly, “you’re actually are very good of a teacher.” 

And if Jon closed his eyes, he could picture her lips curving up into a brilliant smile as she spoke the words, her voice rising in pitch the slightest before she chimed sweetly. 

He gulps, nodding slowly. Why couldn’t he just speak dammit! _Anything,_ perhaps an apology, or a hug, something. 

Dany opens her mouth again, clearly wanting to say something before she shuts it quickly. “Do eat something, Jon Snow,” she murmurs, turning around quietly towards the crowd of people.

_You’re the blood of the dragon._

~

Jon doesn’t eat as much. Not like he was much of an avid eater before, but the mere scent of piping hot food ends up making his stomach roil, the nausea coiling its way up his throat acidly. 

He prays that no one has noticed, for he shuffles his food just enough during their dinners to provide the illusion of him having filled his belly when all he does is feebly sip on the Dornish Red that Dany had supplied in over 100 barrels as a gift of amity. Foolishly he pretends to not relish the taste of the drink, closing his eyes enough to imagine the same taste tingling his tongue as Dany had sat on his lap, the waves of the boat sloshing the wine whilst her soft words lulled him to sleep. 

Excusing himself from the roaring laughter of some lords, he rushes out of the hall once again, the bile threatening to twist his body onto the ground. He needed to stop doing this to himself, stop reminiscing times that would never be again, with a woman he could never be with again. 

“That’s the third time you haven’t eaten dinner.” Sansa’s song-like voice startles him in the dark corridor leading up to his room, making him jump as the sight of her long red hair. 

“Sansa-” he shakes his head, breathless, “you scared me.” 

“And you’re worrying me,” she retorts sharply, matching his fastening pace till they reach his door. She crosses her arms, the scaled pattern of her long dress crinkling at the notion as she watches him with a frown. And the frown deepens more and more as his troubled face painstakingly refuses to meet her gaze. 

“Are you alright?” she whispers, voice nurturing when it had been blade-sharp mere seconds ago. Sansa places a hand on his shoulder, dipping her head to catch his gaze. 

Defensively he shoves her hand away, taking her aback as he huffs. “Sansa I am fine, I just…” his shoulders sag, “I’m just tired alright?” 

But she is Catelyn’s daughter in all her glory, the attentive and gentle side of her softening her features, blue eyes peering at him as she places her hand back on his arm. “Then why aren’t you eating?” 

“I’m eating!” he starts, “I-I just am not feeling well today, and the pies were getting dry-”

“The pies are always dry Jon,” she jests lightly, hoping to bring a smile out. When he frowns even deeper, she sighs, pushing his door open to bring them both inside. 

“Do you want me to bring you some fruit? Some bread and cheese? You can’t just sleep on wine all night Jon.” His lack of reciprocation aggravates her, makes her push him sharply by the shoulder to meet her eyes. 

“Look at me.” 

He expects her to shout, to clip him for his foolish recent behaviour. But instead he sees her brows furrowed with worry, eyes watery. “I need you to be strong Jon,” she starts, more serious and resolute that he had expected. “I can’t do this all by myself, I can’t. 

Jon’s mouth dries, eyes wide as he watches her swallow deeply, the vulnerable and child-like sadness on her face something he hadn’t even witness when they were children. It hits him like a hammer, clearing the fog and broodiness from his mind as he places his hands on her shoulders, all thoughts of silver hair and old promise vanished. 

He’d been so preoccupied with his own struggles that he’d failed to see his family falling apart, his resilient sister not receiving the strength she needs to hold herself up. 

“Hey, hey,” he tips her lowered head up with a finger, heart aching as he sees her lips trembling and shoulders sagging from their usual stiffened form, “what’s wrong?” The brother rises within him, bringing out his protective and caring side once more, his voice hushed. 

Sansa whimpers, frantically wiping the streaks of her tears off her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, I-I’m being so foolish right now-”

“Shhh.” He grabs her hands gently, placing them by her side as he enveloped her in a hug. Its awkward, no matter how much love he tries putting into it because of their height difference, and because the very real fact that he can’t remember the last time he had ever actually hugged Sansa, the only memories of warm hugs and cuddles growing up being from Arya and on the off chance, Ned. 

Ned. Father. 

No, he shakes the name out of his mind with a scolding. This is no time to brood selfishly. 

He hadn’t even realized that she had wrapped her arms tightly around him, face wedged into the space between his shoulder and neck as she trembles, hiccupping weeps disappearing into the fabric of his doublet. Realizing he had witlessly frozen once again, he brings a hand up to cup her head, running his other palm up and down her long back and red hair, hoping against hope that it would soothe her as he murmurs gentle words into her shoulder. 

After the hiccups disappear from her every breath, evening out her inhales and exhales, she steps back a few steps, cheeks flushed as she composes herself. “I’m sorry I just…” her profuse and courteous apology dies off as she traces her brain for an empty excuse. 

“Hey,” Jon coos, tugging a still twitching hand into his, “it’s alright. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sansa purses her lips, swollen eyes looking around the room in thought. “I just-” her head lowers again, embarrassed, “I just always imagined when we all came back together that it would be something else.” 

“Something else?” 

“I-It’s stupid Jon, I’m going to go.” 

She takes a step forward to leave before being blocked by his form. “C’mon,” he murmurs, “tell me, I promise I won’t judge.” 

Sansa sighs, miserable and annoyed all at once. If it were any other time Jon would quirk his lips at the sight, the young Sansa appearing in his mind with a high voice, skinny arms, and the same look on her face. 

“We have all been apart for so long, you know?” she starts slowly, as he nods. “When I was in King’s Landing under Joffrey and Cersei’s thumb, when I was in the Vale with Aunt Lysa…even when I here, married to Ramsey.” The name makes his fingers curl into a fist, spikes of hot fury igniting within him. 

“The thing that always gave me strength, that made me remember that there were reasons to live, to stay strong were us. Our family. I always closed my eyes during the worst days, when Joffrey’s sadism hate wounded another innocent or when Ramsey killed yet another person who was loyal to the Starks, I’d close my eyes and imagine all of us. We’re not doing anything monumental really, just sitting, arms intertwined and faces at peace as we sit in front of the Godswood. After father’s death it had been us kids and mother…” her bottom lip wobbled before she quickly bit her teeth into it. “Then Robb and she died, and it suddenly became us five, the young Starks. I relied on that picture so much throughout the years that when I finally saw Bran in the courtyard, so much older, so much more composed yet sad, all I wanted was to drag him to the Godswood so I could finally actualize the image.” 

Sansa frowned; a girlish drone etched on her feature. “We all changed so much. Bran wasn’t my baby brother anymore; someone I could just cuddle in my arms and tease. He was so silent, so quiet. _Bran_ , silent!” She met his gaze incredulously as he smiles sadly, nodding in understanding. “And Arya…she wasn’t some vivacious and wild girl anymore, dreamily speaking about Visenya with her sword on her dragon. She became calm, calculated and so bloody observant. Even you,” she pointed, huffing, “you were…somehow even more sullen than before.” There’s a sudden lightness in her voice, her lips curve up slightly at the jest just for a moment before curving down. “We’ve all grown. And while it was inevitable…I just didn’t see it happening like this. I sometimes feel like I’m living in the past, dreaming of something that possibly can’t come true. ” 

Jon watches her for a second, silent, stunned, and saddened. He hadn’t realized she was going through so much for so long, the fact making him feel even more shame. 

_I’m failing them. As a brother and a leader._

“That makes sense,” he consoles, nodding. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were feeling so troubled.” 

Sansa quickly shakes her head, placing her other palm on top of their clasped ones. “No no, I don’t blame you-or even anyone else really- it’s just…tiring. Exhausting. Leading and being a sister.” 

“I’m sorry you’ve had to do so much by yourself lately,” he murmurs, shutting her off before she can protest, “and I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Thank you.” Her lips bloom into a sweet smile, before she watches him patiently. “Now will you tell me what’s going on with you? Why are you starving yourself?” 

Oh. That. Jon stiffens and slathers a smile onto his face. She doesn’t need this right now, his burdens and troubles. It’s a battle he’s going to have to face for himself. 

“Nothin’ really, just been brooding a little more than usual,” he quips, stealing himself from her dubious gaze. Her mouth opens to interrogate before she pauses at his inwardly wince, sighing and acquiesced. 

“Alright,” she sings doubtfully, “just please, remember to eat alright? I don’t need another monarch fainting within the same week.” 

Her witty tone fails to erase the way the words tightens his throat. “What do you mean?” he asks harrowingly, heartbeat quickening with panic. 

Sansa tilts her head, brows furrowed as if surprised. “She didn’t tell you?”

“Who?” he begs, suddenly finding the rush of blood in his ears very loud and alarming.

“Daenerys,” she murmurs with a curious look, “she’s fainted twice this week alone. I tried getting the Maester to look over her, but Missandei said it was just some bug she caught because of the new cuisine.”

His eyes harden. “She never told me,” he mutters furiously, “no one did.” 

At least Tyrion could have informed, he thinks angrily. They are still allies-and doesn’t he have a right to know if a guest under his roof is not feeling well? 

In his anger Jon foolishly forgets to compose himself in a professional manner as he usually does when talking about Dany with Sansa. He schools himself, cursing under his breath as he stiffens under her scrutinizing gaze. 

“How long have you loved her?” she asked straight, catching him off guard.

His head cocks back, playing the surprised fool as he flusters. “ _What_ -She and I are just allies Sansa, how could you possibly-” but his defense dies when he realizes he isn’t convincing her of for that matter himself even, head dipping sheepishly. 

“Well?” her tone in amusing, teasing as she crosses her arms lazily. 

He refuses to answer, though he’d be an idiot to think she would not eventually figure it out. Sansa was the smartest of them all. 

When she chuckles at his silent rebellion, she sighs, patting his shoulder empathically. “Whatever is going on between you two, I mean whatever fight is going on, please solve it,” she pleads lightly, still relentlessly teasing him with her eyes, “I don’t want to see her become as broody as you alright.” 

Jon scowls, the look deepening as he sees her shoulders shake with laughter, patting his shoulder once again. “Figure it out Jon.”

_Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all of it._

~

When he reaches her room, it feels like his body is acting on its own, as if when magnetized in her presence he becomes something else, a little more reckless, a little less miserable. 

Jon gives a quick nod to her guards before knocking gently, the beat of his pounding heart echoing within his ears harshly. He prays for himself to keep calm, not let the emotions get the better of him, and yet when her beautiful face appears on the other side of the door, so painfully similar to a terrifying night on the boat, all thoughts leave him. His mouths parts opened; mouth dry. Not being able to help himself, he lowers his gaze to the thin shift she has on, the material doing little to protect his poor eyes from the sight of the milky skin of her legs and hips, skin he loved to sup on during countless nights. 

Like a fool he forgets to realize he looks like an ogling green book, cheeks flushing as he averts his gaze, clearing his throat. “Can I come in?”

He half-expects her to slam the wooden door on his face, for he deserves nothing less truly, but Dany only exhales, stepping back to widen the entryway for him. 

It had been so long since he stepped into this room that Jon takes a few unmannered moments to take in the state of her chambers. There are books piled on her small desk, hardened wax melted on of her candle creating a thick puddle in the corner of it. He had forgotten that she loves book so much, feels his heart constrict when realizing that he had promised to take her to the library himself moons ago. Jon supposes that someone else took her instead, perhaps Arya. 

“Is there something you need?” Dany asked from behind him, the sharpness in her tone not unnoticed. 

Jon turns, eyes finding her leanings against the wall beside the closed door, the thick furs wrapped around her shoulders peeking out specks of her arms to show that they were crossed. 

“You found the library then?” he quips weakly, attempting a smile that dies off the moment it appears when her face only stiffens even more. 

Her brows rise slightly, dubious. “You came all this way to speak to me about books? You know, seeing as how you refuse to even speak to me during meetings with our advisors.” 

Jon winces slightly, shaking his head sheepishly. “No, I didn’t come for that.” 

“Well?” She asks impatiently, shaking her head.

“Sansa says you haven’t been feeling well. Is it your head again?” He had expected Wolkan's drinks to work, as they had miraculously cured his aches when he had first been anointed King, the burden twisting his brain first, then his tattered heart.

Dany’s face falters, only for a single breath, before it morphs into a scowl. “So, you’ve been spying on me?” she clips harshly instead of answering, “Instead of even meeting my eyes like a man, you-”

Jon shakes his head desperately. “No, it’s not like that Dany-”

“Do _not_ call me Dany,” she quakes, all harshness dissipated, voice wobbly and eyes watery to her clear dismay. She whispers, “Don’t you dare.” 

Jon feels his own eyes sting with tears, his feet drawing him towards her. He desperately wants to gather her in his arms, snatch her away from the reality of their lives before it hurts her and them. He wants to lick the fat tears rolling down her face and kiss her, make love to her, remind her with gentle touches as to how fucking much he loves her, how badly he needs her in his life. 

Her wobbly chin juts up as he nears, daring him to come even a step closer. Jon lets out a ragged breath, carefully bringing a palm up to place against her cheek, watching with relief when her face leans into the curve of his palm involuntarily.

“Did I do something?” she asks sharply, failing to hide the utter desperation in her voice, the innocence in her orbs. “Did I say something to make you push yourself so far away?” 

Jon quickly whispers, refusing to let her blame herself. “No, love, _no_. It-it’s not because of you.” His thumb runs down the line of her jaw, as he used to do in their fits of passion. 

“Then why?” her voice cracks devastatingly, a soft sob escaping his wobbly lips. “When did stop being enough for you?” 

_What have I done to her?_ Jon thinks angrily, seeing the Dragon Queen, the Mother of Dragons weep with self-doubt. In his selfish need to be alone he had ruptured the bond they had formed in her heart, leaving a gaping and bare wound left to fester. How could he do that? Not just to her but to himself? What kind of an honourable man abandons his people and the love of his life to wallow in self-inflicted pity? 

He needs to be her strength, now more than ever, Jon resolves, gathering her face in his palms as gently as he can, given her current state. He presses his forehead against hers, hearing her let out a heartbreaking whimper at the touch, like a babe starved for sips of milk. 

“I’m so sorry, love,” he weeps against her wet cheek, “I’m so so sorry for what I’ve done.” He feels her arms suddenly wrap around his shoulders, desperate to feel his warmth as he does of hers. They wrap themselves around each other, soft with gentle coos and grazes of the hand as he chants his profuse apologies against her skin. 

_It feels so right._ It’s so simple that Jon wants to slap himself for not understanding it earlier. Being with her, loving her, feels like breathing, a necessity yet so simple. Nothing compares to the feeling of her warmth wrapped around him, her soft skin flush against his, the sweet yet stern tone of her voice whispering in his ears. No blood or history can change that, and he was foolish enough to let such festering doubts steal precious days of him in her arms like they are right now away. 

They probably only have a few days left before the night will swallow every speck of lightness in their lives, covering every living being in a type of frost they’d never be able to escape once touched. And he will be damned if he doesn’t spend those last days reminding this woman, this _messiah_ , that she is…his everything. 

“I’ve been such a fool,” he cries. 

Dany hums, nodding into his shoulders, murmuring, “you really have,” making them both chuckle through their tears.

“I should’ve come to you the first chance I had.” Gods, how much time had he wasted because he hadn’t surmised the courage just to speak to her? 

Dany moves her face back slightly, sniffling as she furrows her brows. “Come to me about what?” 

A day ago, hell even an hour ago, he would’ve become petrified, frozen like ice at the mere thought of speaking with Dany about it. Like a coward he would’ve faltered back and ran the other way, desperate to anything and everything to prevent himself from having to go through with it. 

But now as he looks upon her ethereal face, the unadulterated love and care etched onto her every feature, he musters up the courage to exhale shakily, accepting it. He loves her, now and always; any old or new god can try their very best otherwise. 

“Come with me, love.” 

_Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?_

_That is the only time a man can be brave._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could honestly write a whole other fic solely on Jon's reaction to his parentage, because its honestly such a tempting and interesting thing to think about and write. His every single reason for loathing himself is somehow related to his identity and the fact that its not true all of a sudden is so earth-shattering, so call is reason #14923952 why season 8 was such an utter disappointment.  
> It's a little muddled of a chapter, but I do hope you understand what I was going for.  
> Ahhhhh!!!!! So from this chapter and forward I've kind of made up my own (logical) version of the ending, and I'm so excited to share it with all of you.  
> Thank you as always for reading, and have a lovely day <3


	7. And the ones who had loved her the most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the loneliest of nights, she’d think about that. Feel that spark of excitement, rush of thrill down her spine at the thought of feeling that connection. Would it hit straight into her heart the moment she touched the Valyrian-steel chair? Would she be able to see the dancing of her ancestors in the Red Keep? The cruel, the mad, and the good.  
> Would she feel that sense of rich history the moment her eyes settled on the castle? Feel the pride at the power they wielded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching movies seriously makes writing fics really hard because all they do is generate new ideas in my brain and then my attention is yet again diverted. So, blame movies on this being released so late. *hides to avoid my self-inflicted laziness*

She almost feels like a ghost in that moment. 

It is this experience of transcending from her body, her soul slipping from her skin to escape the suffocation of the underground tunnels. The ghost version of her watching silently, as devastation befell her human form, the feeling knocking her straight back. Because that is the only thing she wants to do, so dearly; move back. Run, hide, bathe in the joy of living on that boat, drown in the past. 

_If I look back, I am lost._

Dany feels her throat closing and aching within seconds, vision and mind blurring as a reaction to the terrible reality of her life. The rope in her head twists yet again, not with pain though, but because of pure devastation. 

Life, she’d call it less; rather, a cruel cruel joke. 

Many of times people have hurt her. From outsiders to her own brother, each as selfish and barbaric as the ones before. And during those numerous moments Dany would contemplate her place in the world. Was she just a chess piece for some bigger picture? Was that why fate decided dragging her around, abandoning her at times was just? Was it fair? 

The fact is, that there was no anger within her heart; rather there is this…growing emptiness and draining of hope. 

In the past moon she’d kept reminding herself one thing. On the eerie nights Jon would leave her chambers to eat with his siblings, face eager to reconnect with loved ones. When Missandei would eye Grey Worm longingly from Dany’s side, waiting to reach him again. When she saw her dear bear reunite with his fierce cousin, relief glaringly showing on his features at her act of surprising amnesty. 

No matter what she had her legacy. 

She may never get to see her parents or brothers, or cousins, but she did have one, just one thing that may connect her with the ones she’d lost. The Iron Throne. 

_I will take what was stolen from my family, make them proud to know that there is still one of us left._

All she had was her family’s legacy as memories.

On the loneliest of nights, she’d think about that. Feel that spark of excitement, rush of thrill down her spine at the thought of feeling that connection. Would it hit straight into her heart the moment she touched the Valyrian-steel chair? Would she be able to see the dancing of her ancestors in the Red Keep? The cruel, the mad, and the good. 

Would she feel that sense of rich history the moment her eyes settled on the castle? Feel the pride at the power they wielded. 

Would the amethyst of her eyes be able to finally paint a picture of what it may have looked had they not been all killed? Aerys and Rhaella side-by-side, the Targaryens, the blood of Valyria under one castle and rule. And Rhaegar, with his harp, singing sweetly to the meandering commoners of King’s Landing, not a care in the world. 

Maybe she’d be able to imagine how her little cousins had looked, with their mother’s dark hair and father’s purple hues painting their irises. How it would feel to grow up with people her age, scattering around the long hallways of the castle with no worries of fears burdening their shoulders. 

It didn’t matter really, as long as she’d feel it. That thing she’d been begging for on those particularly quiet nights in the pyramid of Meereen, that link, that feeling of family. Was it a feeling of pride and yearning? Or perhaps justice and contention of her heart. 

And like most things in Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen’s life, that raw, bona fide desire to feel at home, to feel that _yes_ , though not physically there she had family, family that was etched into every pillar, every inch of concrete built within the walls of King’s Landing, is being snatched away with the relentlessness of frostbite sinking into soft, warm flesh. 

_“So, the last thing she did as she bled to death on her birthing bed was give the boy to her brother Ned Stark to raise as his bastard.”_

_“My name, my real name, is Aegon Targaryen.”_

~

 _He doesn’t even look like a Targaryen._ That is her first thought immediately after he mournfully whispers the words. It so crude that it sounds gossiping with a maiden about whose seed had actually created the babe a Lady was flaunting and goading over beside her Lord.

For some reason all she wants to do is stare at him; the comely brown eyes that are often murky and drunk with love as they eye her heatedly, plump red lips that pout out when he sulks in corners, thick, raven-like ringlets that he painfully pulls away from his face. 

Has she missed something? A trait, an expression perhaps, or a look, _something_. Something that is not glaringly obvious enough for her to feel the flush of shame pummeling her in the moment, to make her feel that _of course_ she would not have traced that out, that she isn’t a fraud. 

“That’s impossible,” she chokes out, realizing that her lungs had been screaming for the cool dewy air of the crypts. 

His lips tremble, feet bringing him an edge closer into her space. The scent of leather, pine, and musk, Jon, Jon, Jon, evade her senses, as if trying to distract her racing and troubled mind with the smell of home. “It’s true Dany,” he murmurs, fanning breath warming her face in the cold night, “I wish it weren’t, I truly do, but it is.” 

Dany can see his beautiful eyes flood with tears even with the scarce light from small dancing flames, the sight twisting the acrid dagger already lodged in her beating heart, making her only desperately wish to wrap him tightly in her arms, shush him with sweet and soft words. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t, for her arms felt numb and limp by her sides, heavy like concrete, as if her body fiercely refused to acknowledge the words entering her ears. 

She wants to scream. To hell with her queenly demeanor, she wants to bellow out the throbbing ache in her throat, to howl up at the inky sky where the cruel gods sat above.

She knows it isn’t his fault. How could it? For he had been just a babe, squalling and red-faced just like every babe before and after. He hadn’t known his origins, hadn’t known that the Blood of Valyria pumped through his veins. 

…And yet whilst Dany watches him, breath haggard and eyes stinging with tears, all she can do is spite him. The unbidden thoughts corrupting her heart and mind suddenly, then all at once, making her seethe and scowl as she observes his every feature. 

She hates it as the words left, but she can’t take it back, and maybe doesn’t even want to. “If it were true,” she starts, begging her wavering voice to behave, “it would make you the last male heir of House Targaryen.” And then, words that darken his features increasingly with every sound slipping out of her mouth, “You’d have a claim to the Iron Throne.”

Jon takes her in, blinking, slowly and dreadfully realizing she actually has said those words into existence before his head shakes incredulously. “Dany,” he almost laughs, “you, out of all people know that I don’t want it.” 

“You think that matters?” He can be so naïve at times, and if that naivety had been shown because of any other reason she’d coo and kiss him right there. 

He cocks his head back. “What do you mean if it matters, of course it does! I-they-if I don’t want the bloody throne what could they possibly do?” 

Dany shut her eyes tightly. “Jon,” she cries out softly, placing a palm on his chest when the exhaustion truly hits her right in the bones, “if you truly think that most Kings that have come and gone, willingly desired to sit upon that chair, then you are no more foolish than an infant.” It is harsh, perhaps slightly cruel of her to say, but she can’t let his willful ignorance of reality blind him from what will happen. “It doesn’t matter if you want the throne or not, when people come to know that there is a man who has a claim, a man who as well has ties to the largest region of Westeros, they will make you sit on that chair forcefully or otherwise.”

His face falls. “That’s cruel.” 

“It is,” she hisses out immediately. “And yet it will happen, like it always has.” 

“I’ll refuse,” Jon insists after a moment, tugging her hands into his like how Viserion would nudge her gently in the side to gain her attention, big eyes waiting for her soft coos and laughs. 

“They’ll insist.” 

Jon growls in frustration, stepping back to pull on the ends of his hair. He huffs helplessly, mouth opening and closing as Dany watches his mind desperately try to form a coherent solution, try to remind her and himself that there was a way, _some_ way. He had that tendency, she noticed, this raw need to fix anything before his eyes, no matter how fruitless the task and end. 

“Then I’ll proclaim myself a bastard, like I’ve been my entire life.” There’s almost a hint of relief on his face as he says the latter-half of the sentence, just the thought of going back to his previous life like tasting meat after days of starvation. 

“And then the people will claim that I forced you to denounce your name, your rights. They’ll sew banners late into the nights and whisper while the wind is whirling about the rightful heir, the honourable man usurped by the seductress mad woman.” Dany didn’t know why she was shutting down his every suggestion, for it only made her want to cry even more, made her heart sink as she came to the realization that she was doomed, they were doomed. 

Jon shakes his head slowly, hands brushing up to her waist. “Dany,” he whimpers, the lack of strength in his voice like a newborn pup’s first coo, “I won’t let them take this from you.” His teary gaze drinks in her every crevasse, as if he fears this may be the last time, he’ll have the luxury. 

Suddenly he licks his lips, something dawning upon him. “We’ll get married,” he suggests desperately with a spark of vivacity, life revived within him. He places his palms on her cheeks, the rough skin so achingly familiar to Dany’s body that it takes all her strength to not push her cheek into the cradle he makes. “We were already planning on one, this-this just gives us even more reason to.” 

Dany’s throat closes. She can feel it. That absolute shattering, the breaking of her heart, piercing her skin, her soul, slicing her apart till she has horrid and gushing wounds. She watches his pleading and despaired face, those beautiful lips trembling as he waits for her answer.

All she wants, she begs herself, is to say _yes_. Yes, and jump into his warm arms. Gather him up in every way possible, till he is nipping her lips and crying into her ear his words of devotion. 

But as the sweet, tempting, and paradisiac choice blooms within her mind, so achingly beautiful, painting the most breathtaking picture Dany could only blissfully dream of in the past, a life where she is loved, she is cared for, where she has him, her family, one word lights the image on fire, bursting it into millions of flames: legacy. 

It is such a double-edged sword for Dany; on one hand it is her only sustenance for a semblance of family and memories and yet...

It has always brought a certain amount of discomfort within Dany, no matter how desperately she needs to maintain it, when she lied idly in bed, or drearily whilst listening to the citizen’s complaint in Meereen. Legacy, it was something Viserys often sang about; the legacy he’d create, the legacy they would revive with fire and blood, the one he’d roar out to doubtful merchants. _I swear to you, that when I take back what was rightfully mine, when I bring back the legacy of the Targaryen, blood of Valyria to Westeros as a sit on the Iron Throne, you will be sorry for this refusal. When you’re bleeding in a pool of your own making, you will remember this day._

How can possibly want and not want something so badly? The thought of not having a legacy as paralysing as actually having it in the palm of her hand. Perhaps she is going mad..

For a long time, she’d accepted that that legacy would be continued by her and Viserys, she’d marry him, and their children would continue the line, purifying -as Viserys once called it- the throne of the decades of tainted blood, cleansing the city, the country. It had always been the Targaryen way. 

So, when he died, the molten gold crown searing into his flaming skin, and when Rhaego died with withering wings and scaly bones, she had to swallow down the reality that she may not be able to further any kind of legacy. Though she’d destroyed and rebuilt cities, abolishing cruel systems to birth just, fair, equal ones, a legacy of its own, that was the legacy of the Breaker of Chains, Daenerys Stormborn. 

But what of Daenerys Targaryen, blood of Valyria? The thought ended up haunting her every waking moment, reminding her time and time again that she was _it_ , the last of an ancient kind. She was the only one who could make people remember Fire and Blood, make people remember that they were dragons, disappeared but not forgotten.

And when the gut-wrenching realization dawned upon her that that legacy could not be seeded through blood, her barren womb, she’d have to plant it another way. She had to, she had to do it for them, for her family, her House. 

_One to bed._

_One to dread._

_One to love._

The Gods must have listened to her pain, cruelly and for once, for there he is in all his glory, the seed she has been scavenging for, begging for, her serendipity. 

He is going to be their legacy, Jon Snow, Aegon Targaryen. 

He will plant that legacy, let what had harshly snapped off like a flower’s thick stem, once again flourish and grow and remind people why they were called the blood of dragons. 

And he will have to do it without her. 

The finality of it is tough to swallow, coarse and causing her heart throb with agony, when she comes to the comprehension. If she wants her family to live, her House to not wither off with the two of them, hen will have to continue their line with someone else. 

Dany will have to watch someone else grow big and round with his babe. The thought struck her harshly, like a hammer to the stomach, hitching her breath and flooding her eyes with tears. 

“We can’t,” she chokes, not even attempting to compose herself. She is aching, her head feeling like a knife has been gouged into it over and over, her heart feeling like it will die of the melancholy taking over her being. Her head shakes, triggering fat tears to roll down her frozen face. “We can’t.” 

“And why not?” He’s yelling, most likely unbeknownst to his mind. 

“Because,” she starts, wondering that if she doesn’t bring life into the words then they will not have to come true, “because marriages are built towards a purpose.”

Jon opens his mouth, the rage and confusion and sheer frustration on his face forcing her to prepare for the oncoming blow of huffing and bellowed-out instigations…but it never comes. Because the more he observes her, taking in the devastation of her face, the misery at having said those words, his mouth slowly gapes open, eyes widening with every increased shaky breath in horror. 

“No,” he manages to spit out, seething in his words so venomous that Dany winces. Jon shakes his head vehemently, legs stumbling back as he leers at her, the very act of breathing a struggle in the moment. “No, no, _no_ ,” he cries, suddenly rushing into Dany, hands grabbing painfully tight onto her arms, the throb pulsating through her body even more. “You can’t do this Dany, no.” 

Dany bites her wobbly lip sharply, the coppery taste of blood almost a balm to her scalding pain. “I have no other choice.” 

“But you do,” he shoots back immediately, desperately, gathering her face urgently, “we can take in an orphaned-child. Raise em’ to be a good leader, one who will be worthy of following your footsteps.”

Oh, if it were only as simple as that. 

Dany shakes her head miserably. “I can’t be selfish Jon; I can’t allow our house to be erased from existence. We are the last of our kind.” 

It should strengthen her resolute, telling him these words, remind her why this is necessary. But as she croaks out each line out, all she wants is to be back on that boat. She wants to forget, blissfully ignorant maybe, but at least she will be happy, at least she will not have to suffer the possibility of not being at his side through thick and thin. Maybe happiness at the expense of ignorance was a sweet enough deal. 

Jon cocks his head back, appalled and angry. His furrowed brows deepen as he speaks, softly and sadly. “Is your legacy truly more important than us?” 

“Not my legacy!” she snaps, “it’s not about me, or you, it’s about family, _our_ family, _our_ bloodline Jon!” Her irritation only festers when his expressions don’t shift even an inch, making her words even harsher, “We are the last, Jon Snow, why can’t you understand that?” 

“I could give a fuck about family!” he roars so suddenly and so strong that it vibrates into Dany’s bones, kissing the ends of her baby hairs. The action is so unlike him, jagged and serrated, where Jon is nothing but the gentle kiss of summer sun, face flush and teeth snarling in anger. He looks like a what Dany imagines a wolf reacts in times of crises, those attentive eyes wide and singed with thick inkling of darkness, reminding when he met the Night King’s pale, milky, and dead blue eyes.

She should remind him who she is. Who _he_ is. That as a sworn man to her he has to do as she pleases. It would be so easy. A simple, cold, and dagger-sharp sentence silencing his every plead. 

But Dany’s tired. She’s so tired, she realizes, when the exhaustion manages to make its way into her bloodstream, making everything just a little sludgy and lagging. It will take her every last spout of energy to break his heart so cruelly, to be able to stand there and watch as disgust morphs onto his face at the tyrant-like order. No, she might die before witnessing that. 

“Please Jon,” she whispers with a watery throat, pleading, pressing his forehead against hers, “please don’t make me have to force you.” 

He steps back, taking with him the only source of warmth within the cold crypts, making Dany shiver at the relentless chill. “So what?” he scoffs, “You hand me a list of ladies to possibly marry and I what? Become your bloody broodmare?” She winces as the harshness of his tone, so unlike his normally gentle one. But she can’t even blame him for it is she wanted to. 

Dany nods; slow and silent. The action immediately makes him let out a low and huffy growl, the sound almost exactly like Ghost’s when he feels alarmed, it made her spine chill like pouring ice cold water. And suddenly Jon is stalking into her space, bumping against her backwards-walking form till her back hits a wall. Dust explodes into a halo at the impact.

His eyes darkened, the brown orbs turning almost into a shade of the pitch-darkness of night, relentless to leave her own. Jon’s teeth expose under his twitching lips, like a snarling wolf, mouth foaming at the sight of an easy prey. 

His hands pressed into her hips; palms splayed forcefully in a way that make the jagged edges of the wall dig into her back painfully. “You’d watch as I marry another then?” he starts; voice so dangerously low that if it were another person Dany would feel a spark of panic ignited within her body, but coming from him all it causes is her to feel a pulsating throb going from her throat all the way to the pit of her stomach.

“I’d have to, I have no choice.” She shrugs carefully, eyes refusing to peel away from his frenzied ones, angering him even more. 

“You’d watch another look me in the eyes with love, with lust?” he retorts relentlessly, quickly, his heady scent begging her to waver if only the slightest. 

Dany nods.

Jon snarls, one hand dragging slowly up her body to the soft flesh of her neck, head abruptly dipping down to her level in order for his lips to torturously brush against her ear, the notion causing Dany to flush involuntarily, desire beginning to pool relentlessly and achingly within the pit of her stomach. 

His hot breath fans her ear and neck, goosebumps erupting on the targeted spot not lost to Jon, who is eyeing her fervidly, intoxicated by anger and lust all at once. It an odd sight for Dany, almost fascinating to witness. 

“You’d watch as I make love to another? As I make another grow big with a babe?” he breathes. He angers at his own words, to both of their dismays, as if the mere thought of such blasphemy spews rage within him, rendering him breathless and ragged. 

She wants to beg, to make him stop planting such devastation within her mind until she foolishly realizes she’ll have to anyways. He isn’t saying anything outlandish, or childish, for it will happen if he listens, and Jon knows that.

“Of course not,” she hisses, taking him a back, his eyes weakening in fire if only the slightest. “Of course, I don’t want to see it. But I will have to. Duty demands it.” 

“Oh, _to hell_ with duty!” he barks, pressing his body into hers recklessly, intoxicatingly. “Love is the death of duty,” he begins, suddenly soft, breathless, eyes back to the swirling colour of the most luscious chocolates of Lys as they gazed over her, “and this. This is worth it's demise.” 

And with that her weak-willed protests get swallowed by his plump lips capturing hers, ravaging her mouth. The last moon of deprivation of each other suddenly accumulated, bubbling and bubbling before finally bursting like rain droplets splattering onto the ground, making Dany forget every line of defense she has pocketed. She almost forgot how it felt to feel this, to feel so _alive_ with his lips making her dizzy and brimmed with such love she can’t quite fathom it without being rendered dumbstruck.

It’s like every portion of her mind that is screaming, begging her to spot this before it becomes worse, before her heart fails from absolute devastation fails to function at the feeling of his touch, like fire melting wax little it becomes a little more than a viscous puddle of blazing liquid. She can’t seem to hear the shouts of protest, or the reminder that this has to end one way or another.

He moans the second their lips brush, fingers splayed on her neck tilting her jaw up for him, making his devouring of her mouth that much easier. He’s insatiable, bruising her lips with the force of his hungry ones, scorching tongue running across curve of her upper lip. Their noses crush together, blocking any chance of oxygen from entering their lungs, every split second of lips apart letting them take in precious gulps of cold air. 

She wonders if this is what warging feels like. Slipping into the skin of an animal, the only thing in the mind a pounding and rushing need to devour and devour and devour. The need to taste warm and thick blood flooding one with the urge to bite hard, taste, and consume.

Dany wraps her arms snug around his broad back, taking in as he tastes her, tongue sliding against the roof of her mouth savagely, teeth biting into her lips till she is yelping and moaning against the rough wall, throat barely containing the words just begging to spill out. 

_Take me, love me, be my family. Be mine._

When he has bruised her lips enough, just the way he likes it, he latches his swollen lips onto her cheek, planting wet kisses along her jaw and then her swan-like neck. Her own bite into the soft flesh of his ear, making him groan and almost chuckle against her. She finds her unpreoccupied hands veering towards the strings of his doublets, tugging clumsily on the tightly woven threads and only pausing every few moments when his teeth bite down a little too harshly on her skin, his own fingers deftly working on her collar. 

“Mine,” he rasps out when eliciting a particularly loud gasp from her lips, mouth curved up wickedly and wildly, “and I’m yours.” 

If she closes her eyes, she can imagine that they are back in her bed on the boat, life simple and undemanding, the only means to kill time having been experiencing utmost pleasure, and gaining even more respect of the other though the stories of childhood and youth, making Dany a little breathless at how much she admires the man. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine waking up to his lips lazily right where they are right now, his means of nudging her awake in their small but comfortable room, the birds chirping and thick leaves rustling from the morning air. If she closes her eyes, she can picture his heated gaze peering down at her when peeling off her wedding dress, handling her woven threads of a dress. 

And that’s when it hit her. 

Her life cannot be led with eyes closed, begging for her mind to build a beautiful and magical story of what their life can be. If she does, if she shuts her eyes tightly so much, she’ll drown, become drunk off of the addicting dream rather than stave off of her harsh reality. 

It’s like a bucket of frigid cold water has been poured on top of her, flooding her with an embarrassing amount of awareness and understanding, her limply falling to her bare side. 

“What happened?” Jon murmurs gently against the skin above her breast (having shoved the dress down to her hips) when he realizes that she is frozen, solid like a log against his complying form. His head reappears in front of her line of vision at her lack of response, the dew drops of lust and joy matted against his skin so tempting to dive right back into. “Dany?” he asks, placing a hand on her cheek with concern,

“I can’t do this Jon,” she whispers softly and sadly. And before he can protest, she cuts him off, placing her thumb on his lips to quiet him down. If he speaks, with that gentle and husky voice, the one that soothed her nightmares away, Dany doesn’t think she can be strong enough. “We can’t do this. It’ll only make things worse in time.” 

He shakes his head. “Dany, I can’t live-”

“Please,” she whimpers, her plead is quiet and powerful, absolute.

When he only watches her, miserable and shaky, palms refusing to part from her skin, she places a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek, savouring the warmth emanating from him for the last time. 

He seems to understand the finality of her words, swallowing thickly as he stumbles back to give her some space. “I’m not going to change my mind,” he says stubbornly, wounded, jutting his chin up to hide its wobbling, “not now not ever.” 

Dany sighs, tired and hurt. All she wants is to sip on her ambrosia and fall into the warm furs of her bed with the dream of a dreamless sleep . “You’ll eventually see what I’m seeing,” she says instead of doubting his statement, carefully stepping into the cold tunnel’s air, “you’ll understand why this is necessary.” 

“I will not,” he insists again, curling his fists to prevent them from reaching her, “Dany I never will.” 

Her heart is hurting. It’s hurting so much that she can’t properly breathe, can’t feel the cool rush of air into her lungs. Dany smiles sadly. “You will have to.”

And instead of furthering the spar, playing with the burning fire, Dany’s lips curve up miserably, walking backwards, devouring the last of the Jon Snow that is _hers_ , that’s _Dany’s_ , before someone else’s. “Good night Jon Snow,” she whispers, turning around before the tightening of her throat cracks open loud sobs. _Don’t look back_ , _don’t look back, don’t look back,_ she chants, stiffening her body, pretending as if the soft sound of his weeping has not reached her ear, is not breaking her heart even more. 

_If I look back, I am lost._

~

“Are you alright?” Missandei’s sleepy and hoarse voice croaks at the sight of her shivering form.

Dany hadn’t even realized that her feet had drudged her towards her dear friend’s door, her heart feeling hollowed and caved, eyes swollen from the ever-resurfacing tears that refused to abate. More than anything…. her heart hurts, it aches with a kind of searing pain she can only imagine one feels after a sharp blade pierces through their skin as they look a murderous man in the eyes. Perhaps this was how Jon had felt after the little Free folk Olli had plunged the cold dagger into him, the life slowly draining out of his eyes as he watched the young boy seethe so venomously for such a green age. 

Dany sniffles, swallowing, willing the lump in her throat to clear so she can speak.

_I am a Queen; I am the Dragon Queen. Bride of fire._

She licks her dry and wobbly lips, slowly meeting those soft honeyed-eyes that managed to revive her hear the loneliest of days standing in the pyramids of Meereen. “Are you busy?” she asks, cringing inwardly at her less-than-weak excuse of disturbance. 

And Missandei’s response only makes her even more affirmed that she is the purest human to have ever stepped onto the earth. She smiles softly, not pitifully as Dany expects, quickly turning her head to make sure the slumbering Grey Worm has not awaken, his head lolling deep into a pillow with a look of content Dany has only witnessed on his face when in the presence of the woman of Naath, before closing the door carefully. 

Missandei pauses under the barely-lit hallway, thick brows curving as she fully takes in Dany’s state, a look between anger and worry flickering on her soft features before she gently encloses her hand with Dany’s. She expects her sweet friend to say some words, try to advise her or console the sadness off of her face, but all she does in tug her along silently. 

They walk quietly for some time, and in her delirious state Dany can’t really tell where she is being taken. It’s been so many moons, yet it feels like every time she believes she has figured out the castle another creaky and dew-scented hallway seems to bloom out of nowhere, befuddling her again. Every so often she thinks that Missandei will stop them in their tracks when her eyes set on Dany for a noticeable amount of time. All she does, to Dany’s chagrin and relief, is let out a sweet breath, squeezing Dany’s palm. 

She decides to keep her focus on Missandei’s soft hand interlocked with hers, as it has since the beginning of her reign; the two young woman against the cruel unrelenting world. Her soothing thumb draws gentle circles on Dany’s hand, the rhythm almost like a lullaby to Dany’s quivering form. 

Sometimes Dany wonders how bleak her life would without the goodness that emanates through her friend’s every fiber, the intelligence and silent power that swirls within her honeyed-orbs. She wonders how easily it would be to dive into her darker urges, the type that catch her breath with the sounds of her enemies screaming, crimson spilling onto earthy soil like paint on a canvas. They’re the ones that disappear from mind and sight when Missandei steps through her doors. Like wind clearing the ground of rot and foul things, she is silently reminded of the parts of her that makes her different, better than the men who have come before her. 

Before she realizes it, they have reached her chambers, Missandei opening the door for her. It doesn’t even feel odd to have her in her room so late at night, for many times when the sun hid under the horizon during hot nights of Meereen she’d lay beside her gentle Missandei, reminiscing stories of their past, sometimes giggling about some foolish man they had met that day. 

Yet when she makes Dany lay on one-half of the bed, all words seem to not exist in her mind. The only thing painfully searing into her every breath the image of those soft brown eyes hurt, hurt that she had caused. How will she be able to live with herself? Knowing that no outside force or fate had caused their demise but herself. 

She feels the bed groan and moan as Missandei lays beside her, staring up at a similar stained-spot on the old ceiling, arm only brushing against Dany’s. 

“Is it about him?” She asks, whispering into the silhouettes of dancing flames. 

Dany swallows thickly, nodding the slightest. If she speaks, they both know the tears will never stop flowing from her violet eyes. 

Missandei hums, sighing. “Love can be a difficult thing sometimes, especially when in dire times.” She waits for Dany’s response, peering at her face with the turn of her head, but continues when greeted with silence. 

“When the Sons of Harpy had begun their rebellion,” she starts, their breath hitching at the mention of the cursed entity, the one that had stolen Ser Barristan from them, the one that had spun a thread of self-doubt so thickly tangled within Dany’s troubled mind. “I didn’t speak to Grey Worm for quite a while. I was angry with him; I had pleaded night and day for him to not be part of the expedition that searches for the Sons. So many of the men had died because of those monsters, and I couldn’t…” her words die off at the tightening of her throat, so similar to Dany’s current state. 

She remembers those horrid days, where the workers had to dig a fresh hole every day for yet another deceased soldier, a man who had died on her expenses. It had been like that fear folded itself into every particle in the humid air around them, stifling their breaths and constricting their heart with worry and constant fear. Dany hated to think of those times. It had been the first moments of true doubt in her own abilities, a feeling that only weakened her mind, weakened her intelligence. She felt like in those days everyone and anyone was going to betray them; the man who slaughtered the Dragon Queen and her advisors. It didn’t help that every citizen was suffering, quivering under a fear she had vowed to eradicate from each alleyway of Meereen. 

Her insides swirl with shame suddenly. She had never even thought of how such a traumatic event would’ve wracked her friend with pure terror, the love of her life going head first into a fight against unknown enemies, cowards who hide behind golden masks and silk robes. Even imagining Jon stepping into such a situation makes her spine prickle with fear.

Missandei clears her throat, but her words are still watery, tinged with hoarseness. She distracts herself with pouring the chalky mixture into Dany's small mug. “When he didn’t listen to my words, I thought the only way to protest his stubborn choice was to distance myself from him even more. I’d ignore his every word, stare the other way when he was in the room, walk a little faster when I heard his footsteps behind me. God, I was so foolish,” she shakes her head gently chuckling, fiddling with Dany’s finger by her side. “It only made things worse really. Because every time I’d watch him leave the safety of the Pyramid my heart would be lodged right in my throat, my every waking moment would be occupied by question after question. Will he live today? Did he think of me before he left? Had he even eaten anything before leaving, or had his guilt made him feel like he doesn’t deserve it?” 

Dany can’t help but stare at Missandei stunned, barely registering her handing over the drink. She keeps such a stoic look on her face that Dany had never once blinked twice at a slight change in expression all these years ago. What kind of a friend has she been? Not even noticing the insurmountable amount of pain she had went through for so long. How selfish and blind? 

Dany gulps, voice husky and sore. “That must have been horrible.”

She feels her eyes flood with water at the sight of Missandei’s bobbing throat, the way her eyes blink rapidly to keep her vision straight ahead at the ceiling. The guilt wracks its way through her heart and vein. If she was strong enough, she’d tell Missandei that she deserves someone better, a friend who at least is aware of her afflictions rather than having to be told years later. But then again Dany isn’t strong enough to live without that gentle voice, shamefully she admits that she’d die of grief if she didn’t have Missandei with her, no matter how terrible it probably made her as a person. She is her first love, first companion, her Missandei. 

“I was almost too late to realize my mistake. He had been injured when in the attack where Ser Barristan died. I remember feeling like I might die of pure terror when he was brought in, all this red blood tainting his skin. His breath was so shallow when they laid him down that everyone in the room had to be absolutely silent so I could hear it. But when I did hear the faint inhale and exhale, and when he opened his eyes again a few days later…I forgot every string of anger within me. Like a poof of air, it disappeared when I met his eyes, and all I wanted to do was beg him for forgiveness, say sorry that I didn’t realize how much pain he was going through thinking he was failing his men, his soldiers.” Suddenly Missandei turns her head to meet Dany’s eyes, and the look in her eyes makes Dany’s breath hitch. It’s sad, sorrow-filled of a foolish time, but as well brimmed with hope and perseverance, everything Dany knows her for. 

She expects her to say words of warning. _Don’t make the same mistakes with Jon. Don’t let petty issues dictate your life._ They’d all sting her heart, make her even more resentful of such a cruel decision. 

But she knows there’s more to the problem when her eyes set on Dany’s quivering lips, Missandei always know. Her brows furrow, sighing gently as she notions her chin to the drink. And without a second thought Dany gulps down the viscous substance before scrambling into those warm arms, the scent of nutmeg and sweetness evading her senses. She feels Missandei’s arms wrap tightly around her back, running them up and down like a metronome across the white fur of her coat. It feels like safety, being in her arms, and like maybe they will survive this grim war. 

Dany opens her mouth to apologize when she realizes her tears have soaked through the clothes of her night dress, creating a dark splotch on the light grey material. But if feels like she’s been drunk on the sweetest lemon cakes, a feeling so serene she doesn’t wish to ruin it with stupid words. 

They stay like that for a while, gripping one another with the fierce amount of love they have for each other. She hopes when the unnatural blue washes over the castle in a few weeks, when her bone feel an aching chill in the wind, she remembers this moment, a moment worth fighting for. 

“I don’t know what you decided with him,” Missandei murmurs as if whispering in a crowded room, “and perhaps it hurts. But I trust that whatever the choice was you had reasons.” Dany’s not even sure if she is speaking about Jon or something else, keeping her body still as she waits for her to finish the thought. “All I care for is that you decide things that are good for you, Daenerys. You need good things, _jorrāelagon_.” 

Sometimes when Missandei speaks such words Dany is left mum for hours, wondering what god she has to thank to have brought Missandei of Naath into her life. Perhaps her past-life’s deeds had gifted her such a person to stand by her side. 

When calm silence envelopes them, Dany’s eyes thankfully begin drooping against Missandei’s shoulder, lashes pressing into her dress. The only thing that disturbs her path from life to the time of dreams is a soft sentence she believes isn’t meant to be heard while roused. They’re filled with worry, but with passion and anger. “ _Mīsagon zirȳla, kostilus.”_

~

“As of today, the smiths have placed Dragonglass on almost all of the weapons in Winterfell,” Sansa announces with her chin high and a bubbling smile of pride creasing her lips. The lords let out a set of cheers, slamming the tables in celebration as the early morning sun paints peaches across the room. 

The words take Dany aback, she had been so preoccupied lately that her mind completely forgot about the logistics of the upcoming war. It makes her curse under her breath, annoyed with herself that she is letting emotions gets the better of her intelligence. When was the last time she even checked up on the Unsullied to make sure their training was going smoothly? 

_I cannot fail, not now._

Blinking, Dany manages to force a smile onto her face as the people around her cheer for the Lady of Winterfell. And idly, she takes a lazy scan over the room to see which faces she can now put a name to and which she can’t…until she realizes one face is missing from the crowd. Usually beside Arya, who at the moment is wedged between Gendry the head blacksmith and a man with a burn scar running from the top of his head all the way to his ear, each bickering and interrupting the other words, is Jon. Dany furrows her brows, looking over the room again to see him nowhere in sight. She feels her throat ache, but only lowers her gaze to clear it, reminding herself that she can’t go down that rabbit hole again. 

He just needs time. Time to clear his mind and to fully understand why her decision is absolutely necessary. She just hopes the understanding will come to fruition soon, for they are allies and partners in this. 

They can’t let their emotions compromise an alliance that is more than crucial for keeping the Kingdoms in balance, rather than igniting a possible civil war. 

Dany’s thoughts are interrupted when she feels a gentle palm on her shoulder, making her look up only to gape in a spur of surprise. Sansa courteously smiles down at her, questioning with a tilt of her head towards the door. Silently, and still quite surprised, Dany blinks, quickly nodding before taking the arm Sansa provides her. 

Even the people around seem stunned to see them walking arm-in-arm, every few Northerners turning their heads in silence to gape at the Dragon Queen and Lady of Winterfell together. Dany feels her body highly aware, the arm enclosed with Sansa’s feeling like a stiff rod as she prays, she’s not holding too tight or pulling her in any means. 

“Is there something you wished to speak of?” Dany asks hesitantly when they’ve stepped into courtyard, her breath puffing into a cloud from the early morning frigidity. She turns slightly to see Sansa already gazing at her face, an indecipherable look between possibly sadness and confusion creasing the lines under her lips. 

Sansa purses her lips, watching her for a moment before blinking away. “I just wanted to formally thank you once again for providing the Dragonglass from so far away,” she starts with a strained smile, “not a lot of people would do something so selfless for a place they are estranged to.” 

Dany bites back a sour reply, nodding instead of saying _these are my people as well and I would do anything to protect them_ , and decides she’s too exhausted to put up with constrained spite. “Thank you, Lady Sansa,” she says, placing a gentle pat on Sansa's long arm. “I have to thank you for being so quick with the weapons. I had assumed the weapons wouldn’t be done for another moon and yet you have managed to finish it in so little time. Even Jon-” she winces, almost cursing when she sees Sansa tilt her head if only the slightest, still displaying a dazzling smile, “Lord Snow, assumed we’d have only a meagre amount by the time the Night King brings his troops here.” 

Sansa seems to forget to answer for a moment, her eyes stay of Dany’s for an uncomfortable amount of time before she hums. “Yes, Jon does tend to underestimate my skills.”

Dany stiffens, wondering how it was possible for a formal conversation to go downhill so quickly. “Oh, I do not think Lord Snow nor I presumed-”

“I am only kidding,” Sansa reassures with a polite laugh, and if Dany wasn’t watching her, she’d sag her shoulder sin relief. But she can see curiosity in the way Sansa is observing her, as if trying to solve some kind of mental puzzle with her sky-blue eyes. 

It makes Dany almost fluster, her piercing gaze making her clear her throat. “Is that all?” she asks mannerly, barely stopping her feet from running to the empty seat beside where Arya is most likely still seated.

Her face shifts, forming a slight frown and curve in her red brows. “There is,” she sighs, licking her lips to eat up dreading time. 

“I am not sure what your…correlation is with Jon” Sansa cringes with a breathy exhale, “-and really it is none of my business- but it seems that something- and perhaps it is not related to _you_ \- is going on with him. And I was just wondering i-if you may know -and if you do not I- I mean-” her eyes shut tight suddenly before she digs her left foot into the frozen dirt. And if Dany wasn’t feeling so bad for her obvious misery in having to speak the words, she’d laugh at the way Sansa’s squirming like a young maiden talking to a handsome boy. 

Sansa huffs as if in pain before suddenly letting all the words bottled up spill like ink from a jar. “Do you know why Jon has been acting like a miserable shit?” she blurts, instantly freezing with wide eyes. Dany is left stunned as she sees Sansa’s mouth fall open. “Oh Gods, I am so sorry Your Grace, that was _horribly_ impolite-”

“Sansa,” Dany cuts in, throwing all formalities out of the window with a gentle chuckle, squeezing Sansa’s fisted hand, “it’s alright.” Dany now realizes why Arya always mutters that Sansa is more wound up that coiled string anytime the Lady is brought up in the conversation, for her face is pale as if she has killed a man, eyes wide and almost watery. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, shaking her head with a sigh. She suddenly looks ten years younger with her head bowed, like the young girl Dany assumes she was when she first left Winterfell all those years ago. 

Dany smiles sympathetically. “Come,” she murmurs, carefully encouraging Sansa to walk with her towards an empty and splintered bench. 

When they sit, Dany waits politely for Sansa to compose herself, knowing even a second more of watching her will make her face turn a shade darker than a tomato out of sheer embarrassment. Dany pretends not to hear her last spouts of huffing angrily, as she clears her throat. Carefully, taking a quick peek at her state Dany sees her back once again straight like a strung bow, regel and stoic as if nothing had happened mere moments ago. 

“I can’t figure out what is happening to Jon,” she whispers, like a confession. There’s a deep frown on her lips, anger in her blue eyes. “I thought he was at his worst last week but…something has made it even worse these days. It’s like his body is here, but mind somewhere far away, like none of us can quite get to him.” 

Dany feels her face pale. While she had assumed her decision would take an obvious toll on them speaking, she hadn’t quite thought of how it would affect others. It makes her stomach drop, more than it has of recent times, the guilt making her question her choice yet again. 

Licking her lips, Dany stares ahead, throat tightening. “Has he been eating?” she’s careful with her voice, making it as flat as possible so to not rouse Sansa’s curiosity. 

She hears her sighing, the worry is clear in the way she frowns. “No, not really. Mostly he’s been nibbling on a few bites and then sending the rest back. It’s getting out of hand.” 

If Dany weren’t outside of her chambers, she’d choke out a sob at the statement, heart throbbing with helplessness. It was like he purposefully was making this worse for her state of mind, Dany thinks angrily, making her hurt more than she already is. Why did he have to act like a careless child? 

Her teeth harshly dig into the inner flesh of her cheeks enough to cause prickles of pain, her tongue almost salivating for the coppery taste of blood. 

In an act to at least attempt secrecy she speaks quietly. “Why are you inquiring from me for a reason?” but even as she talks, she winces knowing that the words sound unconvincing to her own ears. 

Sansa narrows her eyes, tilting her head slightly as she watches Dany. “Your Grace do you truly think me so thick-headed?” there’s almost a layer of jest in her statement, if you forget the irritation written across her features.

“Was it that obvious?” Dany groans, digging her fingers into the bottom of the chipped wood. 

Perhaps it was just her imagination, but Dany thinks she hears Sansa let out a soft chuckle, her own hands clasped onto the dip of her dress as she does so. “No, you were pretty discreet,” Sansa murmurs, “I just figured you eyeing him every so often was just because you needed help learning the customs and ways of the North, like any allies do. But Jon… _Gods_. Every time he looks at you, I think he is either moments away from building a shrine in your name right in the Great Hall or professing his undying love.” 

The crudeness of the words takes Dany off guard, making her lower her head as her neck flushes, heart fluttering. She curses her body, trying to remind it that it needs to stop reacting like a green girl to even the mere mention of the man. 

Dany sighs; might as well throw the lies out of the window. “I tried telling him to be more subtle,” she speaks almost bashfully, lowering her head even more. 

Sansa hums, the smile clear in her voice. “I’m assuming Tyrion bemoaned the same thing to Jon over and over?” 

“He might as well have written a song with the amount of times he repeated the same phrase,” she says dryly. Sansa suddenly doubles over with a crass laugh. The sound is so shocking that Dany can’t help but look up wide-eyed at the sight of her, cheeks flushed and one hand holding her stomach as she bellows. 

She doesn’t stop for a good few minutes, lazily leaning back on her hands like Dany imagines she did as a young girl, the auburn of her long tresses dancing with the swirling breeze. 

It’s like wind blowing out a flickering candle when Sansa suddenly stiffens. Her face clears of the ease there just mere seconds ago, hands placed back in her lap as she swallows thickly. The blueness of her eyes is back to the colour of a hardened rock; it makes Dany falter, heart sinking as she realizes what is going to happen. 

Sansa stands quickly, flattening the creases of her dress with the flat of her palm as her lips straighten into a sharp line before turning to face Dany again. 

“If you know of any reason why my brother is acting so out of character, please do resolve it amongst yourselves. The people need him. I need him back.” Her words only soften at the end, but the sting has already seared onto Dany’s skin.

~

She tries going to his chambers one night. No matter what she needs him to sustain himself, to not look like an undead version of Jon Snow for once. 

When he opens the door they poor watch each other silently, perhaps staring for such a long span of time because of the fat tears blurring their sight. 

She tries to coerce him into speaking, she really does. But the pain in her throat in so consuming that she can barely breath out a few words before she’s choking back a spout of cries. Dany whispers weakly that he needs to be there for his and her people, their people. She doesn’t miss that way his eyes consume every inch of her like a starving man finally being able to sup, as if trying to ingrain her image with the little time he has. 

She doesn’t expect such cruelty from him, but then again maybe she deserves his anger; she’d rather he be angry and alive than dead and sullen. But it still stings like a slap across the face when his gruff and tangled beard, and his red eyes stiffen, words soft, melancholy and devastating all at once. “Don’t care about me if I can’t be yours, Daenerys.” 

The cold gust of wind as his door shuts loudly does little to quell the searing pain on her skin and heart. 

She doesn’t sleep much that night. 

~

She is speaking with Jaime about Cersei’s buying of the Golden Company when he stops his rushed tracks, making her look up at him. He’s become a ghost in the halls recently, only appearing for split seconds before disappearing down another hall. 

Dany freezes, watching him watch her from across the Great Hall. He has a small loaf of bread squished under his fisted palm as he seems to take a step forward. She’s foolish to think that he actually wants to speak with her as if she hasn’t made him miserable and mum, for he gulps, throat bobbing and tears filling his eyes before he rushes the opposite way towards the tunnel of the crypts yet again. 

~

It’s like a lightning bolt when she meets Jorah’s eyes as Sam speaks gently, pitifully about her golden son. Her heart is being ripped out and yet it’s as well pulsing with vivacious energy. 

_It can’t be,_ she scolds her hopeful heart and Jorah’s eyes, _if I look back I am lost._

She can hear Mirri’s haunting and sultry words like a chant and yet she knows it’s the weakness of her heart trying to convince her of foolish dreams. 

Her heart is breaking, cracking, and her brain clicking pieces of a hopeless riddle together. 

She can’t dwell on futile dreams and words, she has to fight, has to use with all her strength and might to destroy that vicious monster that enslaved her son, her sweetest and most gentle son. 

And yet as she fantasises watching the Night King’s blue and glassy skin melt as he shrieks and hollers, an image of curly black hair and violet eyes blossoms like a pretty yellow flower flourishing during a storm. 

She can’t do this to herself. Not now, not when she is already in so much pain, when she has the most people to love yet is feeling lonelier than ever. 

_Only death can pay for life._

She is Daenerys Stormborn. She can’t let words of a crazed and destroyed person enchant her. 

_A dragon had three heads._

~

Bran gravely informs them that most of the people of Last Hearth escaped, but that the Night King has overtaken that portion of the North already. 

It seems like they’re already losing when the fight hasn’t even begun, Dany thinks to herself as the lords in the hall hush to an eerie silence.

~

Missandei seems to notice it too but keeps mums. They both know the pain she’s gone through. IT would be cruel to bring it up when the chances of survival are so low anyways. 

But she still does place a gentle hand on Dany’s stomach from time to time, making her breath hitch as she murmurs her to sleep. “We need to make you armour, _ñuha dāria_.”

“Just in case?” Dany hums deliriously, the pain of the image creeping into her almost asleep form. 

Missandei nods, tucking the blanket in before speaking sadly, walking to the door. “Just in case.”

~

The bustle of the day is slowly quieting when Dany walks beside Grey Worm, having just spoken with the Unsullied about their living situations in the camps. Recently her men and the Northern men have been spurring up heated fights throughout the camps, especially to the Dothraki. 

Dany doesn’t know why she has not predicted this beforehand, for her time with the horse-lords only confirmed the saying that the blood of a Dothraki is only matched in heat by the blood of a dragon in matters of anger. It makes her stomach swirl though, because if her men from across the poison waters and the men of the North are not able to get along in these dire times, what will happen when war is not on their mind. 

“Have the leathered-breastplates been tailored for all the men yet?” Dany inquires as they walk past the smiths, the strong and heady scent of molten Dragonglass infiltrating her senses. She could see the deepening of the circle’s under Grey’s eyes from a mile away, having only worsened in the past few weeks. 

Grey Worm nods firmly. “Blue Beetle told I-me, yesterday that almost all the Unsullied have been given their leather and furred-uniforms,” he affirms, lips slightly quirking when he catches Dany smiling at his blunder, “but My Queen, I might add that they do not really like the new outfits, they’re quite stiff.” 

But Dany doesn’t need him to state that because she can see it in his every move. As ever his hands are clasped behind his straightened back, but she can tell that the newly-tailored fur and leather gambesons are stiffening his movements as if his body is thawing. It would be amusing stating that he was moving like a bear, if it didn’t mean that her men were most likely going to find it harder to fight. 

She frowns, humming softly. They stop when Arya suddenly slips by Dany’s side, startling her to jump slightly. 

“Arya!” she scolds, pressing a palm onto Grey’s already alarmed body, “I told you not to walk up out of nowhere like that.” 

Arya grins like a brat, shrugging as her smile grows even more at Grey’s scowling face. “It’s fun seeing the dragon queen jump- _ow_!” she groans when Dany smacks her arm, only curling her brows for a moment before the smile breaks open again. 

It’s almost infuriating how easily Arya makes her melt now. A mere moon ago if Arya -or anyone- had done something like that to her, Dany would’ve eviscerated them just with her gaze. But there was something about this young Stark woman. Perhaps it is the big brown orbs, or the crinkles by her eyes that deepen just like Jon’s when she smiles widely. 

Though she can’t quite put a finger on what it is about her, all Dany knows is that she can’t go back anymore. When she looks at Arya, this glorious and fiercely loyal person who has so much love hiding under years of pain all she wants to do is gather her in her arms and hide her from this cruel world. 

So, Dany does just that. Or…a version of that at least, when she loops her longer arm around Arya’s rather short one, quickly filling her in on the details Grey had been informing her with a hushed voice.

“Hmmm,” Arya furrows her brow as they leisurely walk to the Glass Garden where there is a scarce amount of people at the moment. She pauses her trance suddenly, taking Grey and Dany aback. 

“What?” she asks, suddenly concerned before she sees Arya’s face brighten suddenly. 

An almost mischievous smile creeps onto her face as she meets Grey Worm and then Dany’s eyes. “I have an idea,” she starts carefully, “but it may be a little tricky to do.”

Dany tilts her head. “Go on,” she murmurs, curiously glancing in Grey’s direction to see a similar look on his face. 

Arya bites her lips, a tinge of hesitation painting her features before she slowly states, “I think we can get the Northern troops to train with the Unsullied and the Dothraki.” 

If she were cruel Dany would laugh straight away at the absurd joke, but when she and Grey almost begin to chuckle they see the deadpan look on Arya’s face, making them pause. “Oh, you’re serious?” Dany asks incredulously. 

She wants peace yes, but she’s not blind to not see the clear resentment between her and Jon’s forces. Fighting together is one thing, but somehow expecting people that are at each other’s throats to somehow bond and inculcate together is all too greedy at this point. She’s seen the way the Northerners snarl and scowl at her men even when they haven’t spoken a word to them, and she refuses to let them be insulted by crude men’s prejudices and frustrating ideals. 

Dany sighs smiling gently as she figures her words out only to be interrupted by Arya. “I know it sounds ridiculous! But if we strategically place them in one area and compel them to work together so that the Unsullied and Dothraki get used to Northern garb, they’ll have no choice but to grow bonds within one another.”

Grey Worm frowns. “These men don’t respect us or the Dothraki, Lady Stark. I have tried speaking with some soldiers from here and all they do is silently glare at us and our Queen. If they can’t respect us, how will they work with us?” he points quickly, stating the exact thought on Dany’s mind. She can see Arya scowl at the mention of Lady, and then falter by the end of his sentence, shoulders sagging. 

Dany suddenly feels her chest ache at the sight of Arya’s defeated look. It coerces her to lick her lips quickly before blurting out, “We can always try though.”

Grey Worm’s gaze snaps to meet hers with a look of genuine confusion and irritation. She’ll apologize profusely to him later. Right now, though, nothing matters when the rewarding sight of Arya’s beaming smile appears in front of her eyes. It tranquillizes her qualms before they even arise, making her heart insistently remind her to do everything in her power to keep that joy on Arya’s face with all her power. 

“My Queen,” he protests, eyes wide and hands fallen to his sides, “they will be at each other’s throats before an hour even goes by, for all we know. It’s too much tension-”

Dany tenderly places a palm on his tensed forearm, halting him. “We can try at least, right? What is the point of trying to save humanity if we can’t at least attempt to create a peaceful possible alliance with the North. If a civil war between humans is the next chapter after facing a messiah of death, we might as well let the Night King finish us off right now.” 

She can see he still is quite doubtful of the idea by the tightness of his lips, but he sighs at her pleading look, nodding. “Alright we can try,” he succumbs, lips almost forming a grin at Dany and Arya’s quick fits of giggles and cheers. 

“Thank you _Torgo Nuhdo_ ,” Dany whispers, squeezing his now relaxed arm slightly. 

Grey nods before unknowingly squashing her moment of joy when he adds, “We have to discuss this ordeal with Lord Snow, Davos, and Jorah the Andal first though. They’ll know how we should go on with this plan.”

Dany can feel Arya’s eyes hesitantly settle on her frozen form. In the moment she almost forgot that Jon most likely hates at this now, foolishly imagining that she’d lead an enthusiastic Arya to his room and would sweetly meet his eyes as they silently listened to his younger sister’s long and carefully weaved plan, and after while they kissed they’d murmur how intelligent and bright she was. 

Her throat constricts at the very thought. She venomously curses her mind for conjuring such painful thoughts that are only causing her to be even more devastated, it’s like her mind sadistically loves inflicting pain onto her aggrievance heart. 

Dany momentarily blinds the sadness out when she feels Arya’s hand rest onto her back gently, drawing soothing circles as she speaks for her. It makes her cruelly feel warm in her pain, at the thought of Arya taking care of her. Perhaps like a sister does. She speaks sadly, but gently at Grey Worm as her hand tightens around Dany. “Let’s go find them right now.”

~

When she tenses at the sound of his and Davos’s footsteps entering the room she angrily wonders why she’s making herself suffer so much. That thought only bloats when their eyes meet inadvertently. Her chest tightens at the sight, like a punch swift to the gut. 

His eyes are puffed, blotted with blue and purple bruises from a deprivation of sleep, hair haphazardly gathered by the nape of his neck. She can’t even tell what he is feeling in the moment, his eyes spikes with red lines that make him look equally angry, tired, and melancholy, but she can tell he clearly wants to be anywhere but here. 

Jon raggedly exhales before breaking her gaze as he sits between Sansa and Davos, eyes determined to never leave the pattern of the grand table. Dany feels the familiar ache build in her throat at the sight of his rumpled clothes. Has he been restlessly laying in his bed all this time? She has to choke down a cry when she is proven wrong by the sight of a crinkled and dead leaf peeking under his arm. 

He’s been laying outside, she mourns, overcome with the want to sob, he’s suffering because of me. 

Every time she tries insisting to herself that her decision was right and justified, the mere sight of him cracks each argument till they are a chalky powder choking down her throat.

The only solace she finds in her suffocation is when Jorah’s kind eyes meet her as he enters the room. Initially they had decided for the meeting to just be the six of them but Tyrion and Sansa’s sharp ears somehow caught whiff of the time and raised their chins as they walked into the room to Grey Worm’s clear dismay. 

“Khaleesi,” Jorah nods as he takes a seat to her left. He tries to catch her gaze, the question obvious in his concern but Dany is too preoccupied to quell his blossoming hope. The voice seems to catch Jon’s attention, for he flicks his head up from the table to settle on Dany’s friend. She catches sight of his eyes darkly lingering on Jorah’s hand that lazily rests on her chair before realizing with a look of startlement that he is being watched. He meets her eyes again, both flustering as if caught doing something blasphemes before thankfully Arya clears her throat. 

She rises from her seat in the far end of the table between Dany and Tyrion, carefully meeting everyone’s eyes before speaking. “Queen Daenerys, Commander Grey Worm, and I have decided that we need to train the Queen’s and the Northern forces together.” 

Everyone seems to silently look at one another in surprise before watching Arya again. Dany maintains an attentive gaze on the four in front of her, Jon blinks blearily and Davos seem curious while Tyrion and Sansa meet each other’s gaze in shock. 

Sansa, of course, is the first to speak. She palms her hands as she meets Dany and then Arya’s eyes. “Is there a certain reason why you wish to start this now?” 

Grey Worm quickly answers, sitting with a straight spine in his seat. “The new doublets my men and the Dothraki are being given are quite difficult to train with, and since the Northern troops have grown up using these kinds of materials we want to capitalize on that and see if they can give us advice on how to move around with them.” 

“Sounds perfectly normal to me,” Davos jostles, smirking. 

“When was this decided?” Tyrion asks abruptly, making Dany meet his angered look. His lips from a stiff line as he keeps her gaze, the underlying hurt in his expressions not lost to her. 

She tries reassuring him with a small smile. “It was an impromptu discussion only an hour or so ago, Tyrion.” Her words don’t seem to quell the severe look on his face, making Dany frown as his outraged eyes dissever from hers. 

The unsettling in her stomach at the look is interrupted when Sansa speaks again with a strained look. She meets Dany’s eyes, startling her. “Your Grace, you must know the tension that is currently fueling all the petty brawls between your and ours as of late. Do you not think it’s a little reckless to fence them together even more?” 

“Well then the Northern men need to stop being so sour-faced all the time,” Arya clips from her end of the table, making Sansa scowl and wince with hurt. 

Dany can see the sparring that occurs between the two sisters, but she can as well see the fierce love they have for each other as well under all the sharp looks. Dany sheepishly falters at the pang of trivial and childish jealousy that surfaces in her blood. She’s a bloody queen for gods’ sakes. 

Sansa starts, slowly and still wounded. “We all know that the fighting is starting from both sides of people. Pointing blame isn’t going to solve anything.”

Grey Worm scoffs, stunning everyone. “When your men don’t even look at us decently how do you expect us to get along with them?”

Sansa glowers. “Wait, it is not just my men-”

Arya rolls her eyes. “Oh, please Sansa you really love to put the blame on everyone else-”

“Arya will you just _shut up_.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, I am not a child-”

“If we could all just take a deep breath and speak calmly-” Tyrion starts. 

“That Northern man beat up an Unsullied soldier two days ago, Lady Sansa, and you-”

“Perhaps we can all sip on some fine Dornish wine that I _conveniently_ have a satchel of-”

“God, you just _need_ a bloody excuse to chug that wine-”

“ _Enough!”_ Jon bellows with the push of his screeching chair back, slamming a harsh hand down on the table, rattling the poor wood and the people around equally, everyone seeming to mum instantly in shock. He huffs breathlessly, glaring almost menacingly at the fours squabbling people before meeting Dany’s staggered violets. She expects him to falter yet again, like he seems to be doing every day when he meets her eyes, falling back in his hardened shell once again. 

But something…clicks within him suddenly as he stares at her, regret, then self-annoyance, and finally resolution flashing across his face when he shakes his head. It’s as if his veins become inoculated with pure fire, a new brightness sparkling his now aware eyes. He presses his hands onto the table as he sighs, turning to look at everyone again. 

In the moment he looks exactly how he had on Dragonstone when he reminded defensively that he is still a king; it’s a powerful look, fervent and unstoppable once sparked. And it makes Dany’s stomach pang, heat pooling as she heatedly watches the life being ignited back again within him. 

When he starts, his voice his booming, stoic. “If we all keep calling all the armies as them, us, or they, we’ve already lost. The Night King strength lies in his army’s power to be a united force, one that doesn’t fall apart because of petty fights and childish words. If we give him that power over us, the knowledge that a few words can crack through our troops we’ll lose almost immediately.” Jon’s animated orbs, so vivacious and brown now, meet hers once again. Dany’s lips falter open. She devours this look of his like an insatiable animal as she feels her skin, to his observant eyes, begin to flush heatedly. 

“We need to work together, now more than ever,” he says a little quieter nodding at her before glancing at a stunned Arya, Sansa, Tyrion, then Grey Worm, settling on the latter when he adds, “The Unsullied, Dothraki, and Northerners will all work together, equally and respectfully. You have my word.”

Entranced, Dany looks towards Grey Worm. He nods at Jon with genuine reverence before confirming with Dany. 

Sansa still looks troubled though, and she tries stating it. She rises slightly in her chair to place a hand on Jon’s arm, making him snap his gaze in her direction. “Jon, it’s a very noble thought but we both know that this is almost impossible of a task to succeed-”

“And I understand your concern, Sansa, but my word is final. We’ve already wasted time and I don’t wish to discuss any futile protest.” Jon barely brushes his eyes onto Dany before turning to leave, pausing for a moment at the door with a slight turn of his head. “I want to see the Northern men training with the Queen’s forces tomorrow at dawn.”

With those final and heavy words, he storms out of the silent room, looking more alive than any flame Dany has ever stepped her feet into. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought a lot about Hamilton's lines about legacy in "The world was wide enough" when I wrote the firs portion of this chapter, because even though I think Dany and Alex's reasons for needing a legacy are totally different the underlining theme between the two is so similar that its quite frightening. So without stating his exact lines I tied diving on the subject as carefully as possible, and hopefully you can see that in the text.  
> Thanks for reading, and thank you for being so kind and supportive of this terrifying to write fic, I'm forever grateful!  
> xoxo


	8. Credence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding, jealousy, the STORY FINALLY MOVING!!!!! And the very important lesson of never taking drinks from strangers, my dudes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs* Look, I know it's been a bohonkus amount of time, and the only excuse I can truly say is that 1.) I wanted to distance myself from this toxic anger and obsession with the show and 2.) I kind sort changed my plan for the story, and it subsequently took a loot of time to figure out.  
> I'm already pretty much done the next one, as this and the next chapter were going to be one....right before it turned out to be about 20k, so it'll be a little better if spaced out. Thank you for your patience, I bloody hell I hope this chapter makes sense lol.

_Wispy silver hair dances against his chin when he whispers. So close are his pale lips to the red and squalling babe’s skin that perhaps the words never actually leave his mouth._

_A harp plays. It’s sad like the man’s voice, so soft that Dany’s eyes water, the sound of the gentle strings harmonizing with him._

_The air smells of winter flowers._

“Daenerys.”

She jolts up in the lumpy bed. Like a hammer to a shell, Dany’s dream cracks open, though Missandei’s voice is thankfully much gentler than the rough object. Her heart is pounding. She realizes only when catching Missandei eyeing with a frown at her chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“I’m sorry for startling you, Your Grace,” Missandei speaks softly, lips tinged downwards with worry. 

Dany quickly shakes her head. “No, no, it is not your fault, my friend. I-I must’ve been having an odd dream.” 

She feels Missandei run a hand down her hair, lazily attempting at taming her wild strands of silver. Humming softly, she sadly sighs. “It did not seem like a peaceful dream to me.” 

Dany flinches, pursing her lips. “Those are a rare delight in my life, unfortunately,” she murmurs, fumbling with her hands. “Was there a reason you came?” she hopes her voice isn’t malice or irritated when she asks the question. 

Missandei stares at her again. It’s never this unnerving being under her quiet gaze, but something about her uneasy gulps makes her empty stomach churn. “It’s quite late,” she states. 

To Dany’s dismay, her head snaps towards the window only to see the blooming sun high in the sky already. She curses under her breath. It must already be noon by now. 

She was not much of a deep sleeper, so her brows furrow as she tries to figure out why she’s been knocked out for a good few hours. “I must’ve eaten too much yesterday,” she murmurs, waving her hand, pretending like yesterday’s lack of headaches had made her giddy with excitement to sleep properly after what feels like forever. 

But Missandei doesn’t seem convinced, her eyes narrowing. “You haven’t eaten a proper meal in weeks,” she retorts. In the moment Dany realizes how lucky she is to not be on Missandei’s bad side, for the way she is scowling at her makes her skin scathe just by her orbs. 

She pushes out of the bed, blinking from her gaze as she quickly rushes to change her clothes. By now she must’ve already missed two meetings with Tyrion; Dany winces inwardly. Perhaps today is the day they get to finally see Tyrion’s scowl deepen to the point that he looks like an angry crow. 

“The food isn’t sitting right in my stomach, Missandei. We’ve already discussed this.” Sitting down she haphazardly tugs her tangled hair into a simple braid that passes her as well kept to the lazy eye. “I don’t understand why you keep on bringing up the same issue over and over again.” 

Missandei actually _huffs_. “And _I_ do not understand why you will not look your truth in the face.” 

Dany’s arms pause at the end of her long braid as she meets Missandei’s eyes through the mirror. “I told you already it’s impossible. You’re only making things worse by bringing it up so often.” The words leaving her mouth are hushed, for, the moment Dany’s voice raises even the slightest she knows it’ll crack by the dull ache in her throat. Missandei’s quiet footsteps became louder as she comes to stand behind a stiffened Dany, gently placing her hands on her shoulders. 

“I’m not trying to wound you,” she starts, an angry look evident in her eyes just at the prospect of such a notion, “I’m just seeing clear signs every single day that make this less of a suspicion and more of a fact Daenerys.” 

Dany’s blinking away stinging tears when she speaks, voice trembling. “Even if it’s true…not only is it not possible but even if I were, my womb is cursed; nothing coming out of it can remotely be human.” She shivers at the sudden reminder of Jorah’s saddened voice in the scorching hot sand of the Red Waste. The way his parched and chipping lips wobbled as he told her how her baby boy had looked, dying before even gasping in his first breath. 

“Well can you at least check with a Maester today? Please Daenerys-”

Something snaps. Perhaps it’s a concoction of genuine hunger rumbling her belly and the haunting images of her rust-coloured blood splattered onto the furs of her and Drogo’s tent as she bellowed out a sob for her flesh and blood, her first and last. Or perhaps it’s just her short-tempered, but Dany spins out of her chair to clench her jaw tightly, the spike of anger so hot and piping that she thinks it maybe feels like the pumping and viscous blood of her children. 

“I said _enough_ , Missandei,” she barks with shaky fists, “I don’t want to discuss this. Not now, not ever. Am I making myself clear?” Her arched brows are met by Missandei’s faltering ones. She watches Dany for a moment, blinking rapidly before stumbling backwards to the door, the saddened look in her eyes hitting Dany in the gut as she’s already making her regret the words that left her throat. 

Missandei of Naath is not her maid or servant, and even if she was her tone was uncalled for. It’s elitist and disgusting, something Dany prides herself on believing sets her and Cersei apart in their everyday life. She is her partner, her friend and sister. 

“Missandei-” Dany starts, attempting to tug her but feeling her soft hand brush her away immediately. It stings, but she has no right to be treated otherwise in the moment.

Missandei shakes her head, barking a _no_ before stumbling towards the door. 

“I’ll leave you to your day, Your Grace,” she whispers before shutting the door behind her, the shine of her eyes not blinked away fast enough to not notice. 

The pain in Dany’s throat and heart is matched only by the eerie silence of the room after the last of the door’s echoes fade away.

~

It feels odd in the main hall. Dany can’t tell if it’s more embarrassment or loneliness at no one being by her side as she walks in that makes her sorely want to scramble into an unknown corner, so she doesn’t have to face people’s narrowing eyes once again.

Desperately she scans the room for a face, any face that she can hide behind for just enough time to scarf down some food. She almost cries out in relief when the familiar tightly-wound chestnut hair bobs out of the crowd to meet her eyes, a small smile creeping on a face stuffed to the brim with bread as Arya juts her chin inwardly.

Dany quickly rushes her way to the long table painted with thick dry slabs of white wax, plopping into the empty seat before possibly being able let her eyes roam to find those chocolate-brown eyes peering at her sadly. 

“Thank you,” she sighs, grabbing a bumpy plate from the center of the table. 

Arya smirks, gently nudging a loud and vivacious young girl to quiet her babbling with an elbow before speaking, dropping her spoon of soup. “I didn’t see you this morning.” 

The smell of buttered kidney pies and fresh bread enter her nostrils when she places them on her place, making Dany groan with pleasure. It suddenly feels like she hasn’t eaten in years by the way her stomach is roaring for food. “I slept too much,” she murmurs distractedly as she breaks the steaming loaf in two before slathering butter on them. 

“Really?” Arya says doubtfully, “I’ve never thought of you as one to sleep that much.” 

“I don’t usually,” she clips before crying out a moan. The luscious taste of melted butter drenching soft and pillowy bread is perhaps the best thing Dany’s ever put in her mouth. She cracks her pie open and mesmerizes at the brown gravy oozing onto her plate. 

Arya hums, finally breaking her gaze away from Dany’s hunched-over form. “Well you didn’t miss much. Just boring inventory numbers on the rations of leathered-horse,” she scowls out. 

Dany nods, barely even remembering if Arya had spoken or not before spooning in a dollop of peas and gravy. She feels insatiable, hands not knowing what to scarf down first from the large array of food on the table, not paying a coin of attention on the stunned faces of Northmen watching the Dragon Queen gobble down food like a drunken sailor. 

“Goods gods Dany, slow _down_!” Arya chuckles after ogling at her devouring an entire loaf of bread in two pieces. “What, have you not eaten all week?” 

If she wasn’t so deliriously moaning at a gravy-drenched piece of crust, Dany might have rolled her eyes. She puts a finger up, telling Arya to wait as she swallows down her mouth-full of peas and onions before gasping out a breath. “Did they change the cooks?” she asks, the taste seemingly like nothing else. 

“What? No! They’ve had the same cooks since Robb was a babe.” Arya reaches over her to grab a couple of steaming turnips drizzled in a thick sauce, and Dany doesn’t miss the way her elbow nudges playfully into her shoulder on the way back. 

She’s so engulfed in her indulgence that she doesn’t feel the gentle poking into her side, making Dany pause her scarfing to turn her head, the nervous young girl in front of her fumbling with her fingers. 

“Hello,” she says gently, dropping the thick crust of a pie stuck to her fingers as Arya seems to have caught sight of the girl as well, poking Qhono, who is leaning against the table behind them. 

She’s perhaps ten or eleven, a tiny little thing with long auburn hair swept neatly behind her ears and a common dress adorning her small frame. She’s squirming, Dany realizes, the adolescent awkwardness having clearly brushed into her life already. 

Dany carefully places a hand on her shoulder, head dipping to meet her eyes lowered. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

The girl shakes her head quickly, still hunched over. A cup seems to sweep into her tiny hands out of nowhere, startling the two women on the bench. 

“I-I made this honeyed-milk for you,” she shakily brings one hand forward, the substance within the cup barely surviving the throttling. 

Dany smiles, looking down to see a thick white liquid sloshing, blotted with spurts of yellow from honey. “Oh, how thoughtful of you,” she laughs, hoping the ease in her voice will soothe the little girl. “It looks very tasty.” 

Shyly the girl tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, lifting her gaze. “Well…it’s just that I’ve heard you’re from the east, where there’s nothing but sand everywhere! So, I thought…perhaps…you’d like something that’ll warm you up in this cold.” Her voice ranges from a spike of enthusiasm to sullen shyness between her every word, only amusing Dany as she turns to look at an equally bemused Arya who’s nibbling on the crust of her pie. 

“Well,” she says, looking back at the girl, “it’s not _all_ sand, but yes it’s quite warm where I’ve lived most of my life. This place is dreadfully cold in all honesty.” 

She chuckles, pausing happily when the little girl chimes in as well, giggling through her lashes. “It’s always cold here,” she bemoans, pouting and unabashed all of a sudden. “Mother doesn’t let me wear nothing less than three layers before I step outside of the house and it makes me feel like a scarecrow stuffed with hay!” 

Dany bites her grin. “Well she is only trying to protect you from those pesky colds that seem to be so common here, right?” 

She tilts her head, sighing loudly. “I _guess_. It doesn’t make her nagging any less annoying though.” She carefully smiles at Dany, bouncing on her feet. “I-I hope you like the drink.” 

Dany cups the steaming liquid, inhaling the sweet scent. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll taste lovely.” 

“Well,” she shrugs nervously, slowly walking backwards, “I’ll be on my way then.” 

Dany waves sweetly, her heart pulsing with a growing hope already. “Have a good day, sweet.” 

She twists in her seat to set the cup down, sighing happily. “What a sweetheart, that one,” she murmurs to Arya with a smile, lifting the frothy liquid to her lips. 

A harsh hiss makes her pause. Dany looks up to see Qhono watching her nervously. “What?” she murmurs, curiously following his gaze towards Arya who looks equally troubled. 

The young Stark swallows, meeting Rhakaro’s eyes again before licking her lips. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to drink things given by a stranger.”

Dany scoffs. Sometimes she wonders if Arya’s constant paranoia exhausts her after a point. “Arya, she is a _child_ ,” she dryly quips, sighing after a beat when Arya maintains her stern look, placing the cup down. 

She understands Arya’s worries, she truly does. Dany even finds the act endearing, the simple thought of Arya being _this_ protective over such a harmless notion making her heart warm. Looking back, she can count so clearly the times she’d ached for such solicitousness from individuals who weren’t looking to profit from her last name.

Qhono speaks through Arya’s silence, tightening his grip on the hilt of his _Arakh_ nervously. “ _Khaleesi, tat vo shillat jin chomak ma lamekh ilek. Mori disse tihat yer ma ize kijinosi tih,”_ he whispers[1].

Dany places her hand on top of the one on his _Arakh,_ meeting his alarmed eyes. “ _Mae ajjin vosma jin yalli, hazze ajjin vo athzhowakar kijinosi imesh, Qhono.” **[2]**_

 ** __** _“Chomak disse use jin imesh ha their vilajerosh, yer jif tiholat eshnak,”_ he relents _. **[3]**_

Her eyes heat up, lips stiffening. “ _Tat yer fichat anna ha jin tokik?_ ” she snaps, raising a brow. [4]

“ _Khaleesi_ -” he exasperates before grunting in frustration. 

“I take it by the way he’s getting annoyed that him and I are on the same page then,” Arya adds, only receiving a glare from Dany in response.

She understands the cost of such distrust, more than most really. The sorts of impenetrable walls it inevitably forges leaves the lonely and cornered man even more isolated and miserable. 

Too long she’s led such a life, icing people out who want nothing but the best for her and her true goals, running away from vulnerability like she’d run from thieves as a child. Only after her wounding actions had led her to sit in an empty chamber only accompanied by silence had she realized how tiring such ordeals were. Living a childhood on the run makes any person grow a thick armour of distrust against anyone who comes near, but it seemed like she had to constantly beg her mind to remember that she was safe now. Sure, she was wanted dead by many, but she was as well admired and loved by many and _that_ , that constant reassurance, not just from her heart but the generous and loving people around her made her come to understand how enlightened one gets after letting the wall chip away. 

She’d started that terrifying change to herself in Essos and she is definitely not going to loiter her efforts in Westeros. 

Dany looks between the two tensed people before assuredly taking a sip of the milk, the warmth trickling into her belly sweetly as she hears them both inhale sharply. 

_Gods, they’re stubborn._

“If we are to unite the kingdoms, we have to start by building trust.” She starts, setting the cup down as she looks between them both, translating quickly for Qhono. “Trust is the foundation with which rulers and their people form a lasting bond, one that isn’t built on cruelty, tyranny, and unadulterated power.” Dany covers Arya’s white-knuckled fist gently with a hand, smiling. “Small steps make the endeavour of the longer and more strenuous ones if nothing else, just a little easier.” 

Qhono huffs as he drops onto a bench facing away from her, annoyed and still not convinced. She should’ve known making a man as bull-headed as her would come with its own set of problems. 

And though her young friend doesn’t protest any longer, she can still see that way the worry dances in her brown irises as she tensely watches Dany take another sip of the honeyed-drink. 

“Arya,” she sighs. It’s hard to articulate why such small acts are crucial not just to her reign but to her as a human, one who wants to improve the world. “It’s addictive, feeling such heightened paranoia, assuming others are planning the worse for us _just_ to show them how much they underestimated you.” An unpleasant flash of golden masks and bloodied alleyways makes Dany shiver, blinking rapidly to erase the ruthless memory. “It’s also taints you though. One that not only corrupts your morality but your heart and brain till the only thing you’re bleeding out of your body is that relentless poison. It only leads to madness and cruelty.” 

With a displeased roll of her eyes, Arya sighs. “Alright,” she cedes, shoulders still tense as she looks over at Qhono’s hunched-over shoulders, lips pursing. Her features soften almost shyly as she looks down at her plate of food. “I want you to be safe,” she whispers as if it’s shameful. “That’s all.” 

If Dany did not know that it wouldn’t cause Arya’s head to pop off in annoyance, she would have hugged her right then and there, to the point that the little woman probably would turn a shade of blue. 

She bites her smile instead, heart clenching as she teasingly watches Arya, dipping her head to relentlessly watch her flustered face. If there is one joy she can still indulge in during this terrible day is to checklist her daily act of annoying Arya Stark. 

“Oh, _bugger off_ , you,” Arya squirms, making a spurt of giggles erupt from Dany which only agitates the Stark even more. 

“I really wish I had a bloody dragon,” she murmurs under her breath, the deepened scowl of her face barely affecting Dany’s howls. 

~

It takes five more kidney pies to be guzzled down for Dany to lift her head up slightly and be taken aback by just how crowded the hall is. Sounds of bellowing and slamming of large hands onto tables echoes throughout the room like chimes of bells. There’s a huddle of little children dancing around a small table, most likely to instigate their already annoyed parents who are attempting to tug them back onto their seats. 

The image makes Dany smile sadly, the food running down her fingers and slathered on her plate forgotten as she takes a good look at the people around her. 

It’s a foreboding thought -quite nihilistic in Dany’s mind- but she can’t help but think of this whole lot’s future. In a few weeks or perhaps days, the Night King will arrive. She doesn’t want to delve into it but the eerie thought of these same people becoming pale and painted with blue eyes as they kill their own sets her stomach roiling. 

If she cannot save less than a million people who live in the North how will she possibly save the country from this imminent doom? What kind of a ruler will she be if she pretends that a failure to the North will not taint not only her image, but the strength she emanates to her citizens? 

_I will protect them. Like a_ Mhysa _I will._

Her frozen eyes are interrupted by a blur of fast movements when a body jumps into the other empty seat by Arya. 

“I’ve seen bulls eat less than you do,” the young man Dany understands to be Gendry quips wickedly at a now scowling Arya. She scoffs, dropping a ripped loaf of bread onto her sodden plate to smack him. “And _I’ve_ seen asses with smarter brains than you.”

“I thought ladies aren’t supposed to speak so fowl-”

“Oh, shut up I am not a-”

Gendry exasperates. “A lady. Yes, _yes_ , I’ve heard it all before. Gods you Starks sure love repeating the same bloody phrases over and over-” It’s like frostbite creeps over his face when Gendry’s eyes seem to catch a wisp of Dany’s hair, all thoughts forgotten when he gapes in horror. “Y-Your Grace,” he blurts, suddenly jumping out of his seat with a face red like a leaf from the Godswood, “my apologies for the fowl language. I di-didn’t know you were sitting here.” 

_Oh_. It’s as if she’s caught Arya red-handed whilst stealing gold when she slowly meets her eyes with a pursed smirk. It didn’t take her long to figure out that the man in front of her is Gendry, the mystery man Arya _oh so loves_ to curse about almost every day before their training. 

Arya swallows thickly, eyes wide like having encountered a ghost as she shakes her heads tightly. _I will murder you_ , she mouths to Dany with a look so flustered that Dany wishes she somehow to capture the look on her face forever.

Dany clears her throat to suppress the chuckle just dying to escape her mouth at the petrified look on Arya’s face before meeting Gendry’s again. “That’s quite alright. Gendry, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes, Your Grace.” 

The poor young man is frozen like a log as he answers Dany’s questions as if being interrogated while Arya slowly lets out a loud exhale or relief. 

“Are you from the North?” she’s asks as gently as possible. 

“N-no Your Grace, I am from Flea Bottom. It’s a slum area of King’s Landing. Y-you probably haven’t heard of it, it’s quite lowly for a lady, overcrowded and dirty-”

“I lived in the slum at one point as well,” she points out, clearly surprising him, “for a good few years my brother and I couldn’t find a shelter that didn’t recognize our hair and eyes. So, we stayed under sodden tents and the warmest pieces of cement we could find.”

Gendry frowns. He’s stunned as he meets Arya’s eyes. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

“No, no,” Dany quickly says, resting a hand on top of his which clearly makes him even more stunned. “We all have a terrible or troubled past. Mine is no worse or noble just because I was born of a royal family.”

He’s ogling at her pail hand on top of his. It’s as if she’s taken his clothes off by the way his cheeks pinken. 

“Forgive his idiocy,” Arya scowls, her eyes hardening with hurt as she watches his expressions. She’s barely even speaking to Dany when she murmurs, “He’s never touched a girl or woman before.”

Gendry scoffs, “I have!” 

“Oh _please_ , holding hands with one girl whilst we were on the road North doesn’t mean you’ve ever-”

Having already become exhausted from their shrill bickering Dany groans, slamming the table loud enough to jolt them out of their argument that has somehow spiraled to an incident around _a bull mask_. 

“Do you ever not bicker?” she chuckles incredulously. 

They’re both huffing with flushed cheeks as if angered, faltering with embarrassment as they quickly meet each other’s gaze. 

But there’s something else, Dany recognizes intriguingly.

Silencing out the words spoken, she can see the way they’re suddenly so alert, eyes dilated with excitement. It takes her a stupid amount of time to realize that they somehow _enjoy_ this kind of anger. There’s a thrill in the brown eyes Dany has come to know so well, but it’s different than the kind of excitement that ignites Arya’s orbs when they’re training or speaking about something of interest to her. It’s attraction, Dany falters, feeling quite stupid in the moment for not having realized it just by the sheer passionate way Arya screams to her about the man. 

It takes her even more seconds to realize that she knows that feeling more than anyone. And her throat constricts. 

During the busy days and nights on Dragonstone she’d felt that same rush of anger, the kind of infatuation against someone that overtakes your body, makes you see crimson and constricts your breathing. The kind of anger that made her want to conjure a hot, gleaming, molten ball of fire to hurl at those raven curls and hardened brown eyes.

It was the kind she sorely missed, when the infuriating man left for an equally infuriating and suicidal expedition deep in the North. The anger, she’d realized too little too late was something that ignited her, soul and body and then…. when he left it had felt like a piece of the puzzle was missing. One that she desperately scrambled for in every corner of her mind but never was able to find again in those torturous weeks. 

She’s barely able to blink away the watering in her eyes when the unbidden thought comes into mind, like a scary fable one hears as a child that settles darkly in their hearts forever. _I’ve lost the right to that anger._

~

It feels like her stomach might burst just from the sheer volume of food she’s devoured in a dangerous amount of time. Dany decides to take a detour on her way to her chambers, the food making her sleepy but as well making her feel like if she lays down she’ll heave buckets onto the poor floors. Since she missed the morning meetings, they all decided to push the oncoming ones to tomorrow so they can update her on anything they did already, which Dany is thankful for because the mere thought of grueling through meetings for four hours makes her head faintly throb. 

She thinks to perhaps go find Missandei and clear up the mess she’d brewed that morning. Dany grimaces just thinking back. _Gods_ , sometimes when she looks at her actions in retrospect she wonders how anyone has summoned the courage to stay with her during such impulsive or harsh moments. 

Her feet slow their fast pace as she digs into her bottom lip. How could she have spoken to her that way? Not only because Missandei is her sister, but because she’s her most trusted confidant and advisor. There’s not a situation out there, whether minute or grand, that Missandei’s gifted mind won’t help ease a splendid decision for. And she treated her like a spoiled princess treats her maids.

Sighing, Dany turns around, veering towards Missandei’s chambers by Grey Worms. _Might as well swallow that stubborn pride of mine and_ -

“ _Oof_.”

A hard surface knocks the breath out of Dany, making her stumble back before her arrow-like posture saves her. She already knows who it is, but she still takes the effort to look surprised when her lifted eyes meet Jon’s. 

“Oh,” she murmurs, blinking rapidly, “my apologies. My mind must’ve been scattered…” she fumbles, exhaling a rather annoyingly shaky breath. 

“That’s alright,” Jon starts, hands fisted by his side, “I always seem to forget that when I run I am practically wishing to hit someone.” 

His quip makes her smile. “Actually, I’m quite used to it at this point.” At his questioning look she adds, “Arya bumps into me virtually every day at this point.” 

The soft chuckle he lets out squeezes her heart; how many times she must’ve heard that sweet symphony and taken it for granted. He nods, the smile a mixture of pride and teasing. “Yes, well Arya is quite possibly even more wild than I remember.” 

They laugh gently, savouring the now rare lack of tension that thickens the air around them like molasses. Unbeknownst to him, Dany looks away as he carefully takes in her state as her heart pummels within her chest by the heat of it. It’s aggravating that her body still reacts this way simply from a glance. 

Jon clears his throat. “I…actually wanted to speak with you.” 

“Oh,” Dany’s brows raise, eyes not missing the bloom of red on the apples of his cheeks at his greenboy-esque blunder. “Alright, what is it?” 

She can tell he’s nervous -well, at least more than usual- eyes tilted down and fists clenching and unclenching. “Well, Sansa was telling me-” 

Instantly her chest constricts with annoyances at the name. Had Sansa complained about her yet again? She really was foolish enough to believe their amnesty to be the lasting kind. 

“-That you haven’t been eating.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” her brows disappear into her head. “I-I didn’t know she was paying attention to that.” And as quickly as it rose her flame of anger puddles into a pool of shame. 

Jon sighs, clearly recognizing her spurt of anger. “Well I was going to ask you for a reason, but then I just saw you in the Great Hall and…” he slows off not wanting to sound rude. 

“I was scarfing down the entire table’s food?” she finishes, grinning. 

Seeing her face, he shrugs nervously, being the ever diplomat. “I wasn’t going to put it like _that_. But yes.”

Dany laughs. Gods he’s such a prude. “I slept like a bear today for some reason and then I suddenly was overcome by a bear’s appetite.” 

Jon smiles warmly, “Well I’m glad you’re eating again. I was getting worried.” 

Dany’s not sure he meant to be so frank when she shyly looks up at his molten eyes, throat constricting at the thought of him worried sick for her. Thankfully he’s pointing with his arm down the hall, letting them break apart like a breath of air. They walk silently, careful to maintain the appropriate amount of distance between two monarchs. 

She’s about to open up a quite dull topic on the grain storage in Winterfell when she pauses at his troubled and hesitant look. 

He licks his lips, glowering. “I saw you’ve met Arya’s friend.” 

It’s so out of the blue it makes her steps freeze, mind needing her body to stay still as she slowly digests his words till the realization comes to her. “Oh, you mean _Gendry_?” she says, a little more incredulous than she’d like. 

He nods whilst still looking ahead, lips frowning even more at the lightness in her voice at the mention. “You two seem quite close,” Jon states, the spiteful curl of his upper lip making her head tilt. Seeing her narrowing stare, he quickly adds to save himself, “He’s a nice man. Very kind, a very good smith”, like an uncle speaking about his terrible young nephew. 

She dips her head to watch the entertaining scene a little closer, brows furrowed. “He’s quite charming as well,” she adds, even more intrigued when his frown deepens like a melting icicle. 

“He’s _alright_ ,” he scowls haughtily, “it’s not like he’s some-some kind of knight in shining armour or anything. I mean-he _is_ a good fighter and all…and is quite a kind person-but I mean he’s not _that_ incredible you know? Average man?” he adds weakly. 

_Oh, you handsome handsome idiot._

She wants to howl at the thought of her being romantically involved with Gendry. Not because he’s not a worthy man, she knows Arya wouldn’t settle (no matter how many times she says they’re ‘just friends’) for a loathsome and petty person who can’t digest the fierceness that emulates in her every step, in fact, Dany’s sure if Gendry was like that Arya would have flicked him out of her life like a pest already, but because she’s seen the foolish way he dizzily watches Arya when she’s not looking. It’s so palpable and pure that she doesn’t need to hear their stories to know how far back they’ve been through thick and thin together. She wouldn’t try interfering in such a beautiful story ever. 

Wanting to put him out of his misery, Dany clears the last bubble of laughter from her throat, calmly noting, “He’s charmed Arya right out of her socks.” 

She hears his relieved inhale before meeting his eyes, surprise evident. “You two…are friends then?” 

Dany cocks her head back incredulously. “Friend is an exaggeration when the poor boy can’t say more than two words at me without almost slipping on his standing feet.”

“Oh,” he curses under his breath, the look of solace evidently washing over his previously ashen face, “alright.” 

It’s such a girlish thrill she finds in watching him mottle over jealousy, that she almost forgets how childish the emotion is in the first place. But in the moment, having received nothing but empty looks for a good few days she’ll savour the petty jealousy over the icy look his orbs have usually frozen to. 

He takes a step forward as if nothing happened, a goofy tilt of his lips upwards not subtle enough to not be caught by her observant eyes, before he suddenly halts like he’s crashed into a wall, face distraught again for all the other reasons now. 

“Wait,” he turns looking horrified, slowly meeting her gaze, “he’s charmed _who_?”

~

She hears his footsteps before his words in the empty corridor, the sigh already prepared in her throat. 

“You’re looking much better, My Queen,” Tyrion states, rushing to walk beside her. 

She hasn’t spoken much with her Hand during the day, or the past weeks in all honesty. Perhaps because of her own painful trials of the moment, or the fact that she is becoming less and less convinced of his conviction to her cause. 

She licks her dry lips, barely looking at him before speaking. “Thank you Tyrion.” 

Before he can wittily remark she adds, “Is there a reason you wanted to see me this evening?” 

“I’m hurt. Can’t I just have a candor but harmless conversation with an old friend?” he quips, quickly subsiding his chuckle at the way Dany narrows her eyes dubiously.

“Alright,” he sighs, gently patting her arm to veer towards the left hall, “Bran wants to speak to you.” 

That makes her pause, halting her long strides to face him. “What does he want?” she asks with furrowed brows. She doesn’t mean for it to sound so malice, but there’s something about the youngest Stark that puts her on edge. The way he watches people…his brown eyes so sullen and dull like withering wood in a desert that it sends shivers down her spine at mere contact. 

Tyrion shrugs, clearly curious himself. “I’m not sure to be honest, but it seemed like it was urgent.” He pauses, tilting his head, “Though it is Bran so there is no true way of telling when he’s particularly emoting or not.” 

If her stomach wasn’t churning at the thought of being in a room alone with the young man, she’d have quirked a smile at his quip. 

They make their quick way to the room Tyrion ushers through directions, pushing open the door for her. “Would you like me to accompany you?” 

Her immediate response is to say call for Missandei, but pitifully she remembers that she doesn’t even have Missandei’s good graces in the moment. Dany nods silently.

It’s not a surprise to her when the cold gaze of Bran Stark twists into the length of her stiffened spine like a rusted iron rod. He’s sitting in his furred-wheelchair, hands resting oddly still in his lap that’s covered with this thick tunic that goes all the way to his chin. He smiles, lips quirking the slightest as he sets his gaze between the Queen and her Hand. The nervous feeling curdling within Dany only worsens. 

“Hello, Lord Stark.” She smiles courteously, carefully walking forward. 

“I’m not a Lord really,” he replies with a flat voice. It’s ghostly and weak, only making the atmosphere within the barren chambers seems more like the empty field packed with snow outside of the grounds. 

She falters, not knowing what to say so she peers at Tyrion who seems equally spooked by the pale young man. “My apologies.” When he doesn’t respond she puts on her bright smile again. “Also, I hope Lord Tyrion being here isn’t a problem. Or is this a private matter.” 

“Tyrion can be here as well.” He’s suddenly pushing the wheels on his chair, Dany and Tyrion quickly walk a few steps behind, not knowing if they’re supposed to follow anyway.

Bran stops at the hearth and to their surprise he gestures to two empty chairs that Dany figures haven’t been touched in ages by the way the dust paints theirs surfaces.

“I haven’t heard your dragons in a while,” he starts out of nowhere. 

Dany blinks. “Oh. Well they do not like the cold particularly. Though I think with how thick their scales, they’re just being fussy.” Her chuckle quickly fades into a tightening of the throat when his empty gaze suddenly shifts from the fire to her. 

“No,” he whispers, head shaking, “they’re not cold. They’re afraid.”

Dany’s body drowns in frigid water, bones stiffening as her heart begins quickening. “What do you mean?” 

Is he threatening her children? A stifle of anger arises within her at the thought, dizzying her. She will not let a soul touch her two sons so as long as she takes in air, no matter how she needs to protect them.

Bran exhales mournfully, the edges of his brows furrowing the slightest as if saddened. “They know what’s coming. They know how dangerous it is.” His gaze lowers to her stomach, her belly lurching harshly at the action, and before her panicked form can stop the words, they’ve already touched the air. “They want to protect you and your family.” 

She can feel Tyrion’s gaze snap onto her before she looks. “What does that mean?” His blue eyes wide and body barely resting in the chair. 

“Daenerys, what does-”

Ignoring him she shuffles in her seat, the beating of her heart so loud that it overpowers the crackling of the burning logs near them. “Protect me from what? They’ve already seen the Night King an-and my sons and army are stronger than he can ever be.” 

But Bran seems less than convinced, lips frowning even more. “Your children are smart enough to know by now that He is unbeatable, inevitable.” 

Is she missing something? Dany’s hands begin trembling, goosebumps prickling underneath her grey coat as if she’s in a blizzard. 

Her voice is filled with even more panicked and confusion than seconds ago. “What-what does that even mean?! If I had known he was there at Eastwatch I’d have killed him then and there-”

“Once for blood, once for gold, and once for love.” 

The blood runs cold in Dany’s shivering body as the cursed words are cut into her. She can’t spend another moment with this man suppressing the urge to slap him strike across the cheek. 

“How dare you!” she roars, jumping out of her seat, “I do not know who you think you are, or what your magical power entails for yourself and others. But I will _not_ sit here and let you berate my children or profess to dangle my fate in your little hands as if you’re some kind of god.” Her words hiss out by the end, breath seething and hot. 

He’s watching silently, the pitiful tinge in his eyes only igniting her fiery anger even more. Who does he think he is invading her past, present, and future like this? 

Tyrion raises his hands, clearly seeing how close she is to summoning Drogon. “Now let’s calm down everyone. Clearly there is a lot to unpack here, but if we just sit down and take a-”

Dany sees fire. Perhaps she’ll get Drogon to ashen the brat dwarf first. “ _You_ , shut-”

Her skin feels on fire suddenly, sucking the words right of her, the air around her stifling and sweltering like it had in the Red Waste. Is she falling? The world seems to turn upside-down slowly…. slowly…like drops of dew plopping onto the grass. Images blur into twos and threes, colours blending into an array of browns and oranges till she’s gasping for some air to clear her head. 

Her Hand’s panicked voice barely registers in her mind when all she can see, as if paralyzed, is Bran’s sad set of brown eyes as the world tilts halfway down. He looks apologetic when the only thing in focus in her blurry vision, as if in regret. 

It spins. 

The world, the images, everything spins, till her head rams into the boar skin layering the floor. 

Like water touching a parched throat it’s cold, so cold that all she wants to do is curl up into the soft black fur. She wants a dreamless sleep. 

~

_It’s warm._

_The sun kisses her skin like the steaming water within her copper tub, the few constants of her life. The sand is warm as well, sticking over her damp clothes in blots. But she doesn’t care; neither the sand of the jagged-edged shells digging into her legs take up much of her notice as she gazes down upon those beautiful violet eyes._

_They’re big, round doe eyes that gleam up at her with curiosity and innocence. A chubby finger is slathered in drool as it lolls in and out of the babe’s mouth, plump little lips curving up in a goofy grin._

_She feels like she can’t breathe with the amount of love tightening her throat, choking any syllables that are trying to escape. Love, she realizes foolishly late, love. That’s what’s brimming through her every vein and fiber._

_A husky voice calls cuts through her mesmerisation of the thick raven ringlets curling around her fingers, making her look up._

_Dany, he’s saying, a lazy and relaxed smile painting his lips. Has he ever looked so relaxed she wonders? Nowadays he always does. From the moment he wakes from slumber till the moment their gurgling babe drifts off in its crib. She hasn’t told him of her observation, the fear that it’ll jinx the miracle halting her every time._

_He’s running towards them, and like ink on a canvass his wet hair pastes to his long neck and broad shoulders. He keeps saying something, the relaxed smile slowly dying off his face as he walks nearer and nearer, laze jog morphing into a panic sprint._

_She’s desperately trying to answer him, but it’s as if there’s a thick slab of wall between them, muffling her words and his bellowing._

_What?! She tries screaming, holding the gurgling babe tighter to her chest as it begins wailing, tell me my love, I can fix it, she cries as he’s tripping through the sand to get near her, arms opened wide as if to shield them as he screams and screams._

_The sand is stinging her. In the midst of her worry, Dany peers under her arms holding the babe, assuming the sand is steaming because of how hot it is. Is this how fire feels to people?_

_She’s shuffling the babe, worried the sand will burn the little thing as she tries to look closer, brows furrowing. The small dots of brown crackle like wood in a hearth, bursting into shiny beads. Little crystals, Dany realizes, mouth gaping, blue as the haunting eyes of the king of night are dancing on the ground._

_Her heart meets a heavy boulder as it drops. They aren’t dancing no, they’re moving. Closer, and closer to her skin, like crawling ants till the crystals are searing into the skin of her ankle._

_It’s so cold that its burning, so blindingly painful she hisses, attempting to lifts her leaden legs from the ground._

_The babe, she remembers through her pain and sudden tears, the dagger-like specks of twinkling frost creeping up and up to her paralyzed thighs, I have to protect the babe._

_But what can she do? She looks up desperately. Jon can help, he always does._

_He’s sprinting towards them ... but it’s as if the space between them is multiplying to both their realization, only making his flailing form blur by the beat of her heart._

_What do I, what do I do? She pants, petrified as she looks at the crystals freezing her flimsy dress, hardening like molten metal kissing cold stones._

_The pain is blinding, but so is her fear. She can feel the burning on her arm now, almost touching the babe tucked in the woolen-white blankets._

_NO, she wails silently, the words swallowed by the ice kissing her skin. Her skin is steaming, blistering agonizing under the sheer heat of the blue crystals till the short waves evaporate around the still babe._

_Her vision blurs in horror, the tiny thing begins to scream when the little crystals touch its small toes. Don’t hurt the babe, she wants to sob, the frost is overtaking her, freezing the last of her hot tears rolling down her face, the blur of Jon running from the edge of her vision as well halting, take me instead, please._

~

The first thing Dany realizes as she jolts awake is the puddle of water around her. It’s warm, sticking to her thin clothes and the bed cloth under her like honey.

When she then peels her eyes opens she regrets it instantly; like wind her vision swirls around, making the pattern on the ceiling look as if its trapped under a layer of water, expanding and contracting and spinning all at once. It’s like a hammer to her stomach when the nausea hits her equally along with the regeneration of all her senses. 

The water, she realizes with a grimace from the overwhelming stench rifling in her nostrils, is in fact sweat. It only amplifies her churning stomach, making the nausea spike to her throat and before she knows it her arms are heaving her up desperately to double over the edge and retch, the only things vomiting out a thin liquid. 

The simple action of moving seems to suck her of what little energy she has mustered, leaving her muscles to give up, her head harshly plopping back onto the sodden pillow. 

Dany groans, opening her mouth to let out some sort of noise, anything really, so she can take something to stop the world from spinning anymore. Or perhaps to sleep again. She gulps, feet curled in to hide from the draft touching her from the blanket ridden blanket. It is worse to sleep to relive the petrifying nightmares, or stay awake and burden her body with exhaustion? 

She doesn't get any time to contemplate the double-edged sword, for rushed footsteps lead to the door being bursted open, a distraught Gilly freezing as she looks up from the puddle of brown liquid seeping across the floor to the woman in the bed who looks no less worse than the mess she spewed everywhere. 

“Your Grace!” she cries joyfully, halting her steps to carefully jump over the puddle near her bed. She sits on the edge, slowly taking in the state of Dany’s crumpled and sticky clothes, but by the unsurprised look on her face Dany falteringly realizes this isn’t a new state for her. 

Gilly checks her head, and so gentle and cold are her hands that Dany almost cries out in relief. It feels like gulping down the cool water in the sweltering heat, the discomfort throbbing throughout her body nearly forgotten for a second. 

She smiles, grabbing a bowl from the table. “How are you feeling now, Your Grace?” she asks, setting the bowl onto her crossed leg. 

Dany only nods, worried her voice will sound like a raspy crow with how sore it is. She directs her gaze towards the bowl which she assumes contains Wolkan’s drink, making Gilly follow her.

“Oh this?” she points, answering after Dany confirms, “One of your Dothraki handmaids, M-Mitthi, gave this to me,” she stutters, making Dany smile in surprise. “She called it something that I couldn’t possibly pronounce, but I think it is yarrow. We only got this once every two years when travellers came to our village. But a little works a long way.” Gilly lifts her pillow gently, edging Dany up with an eye on her small winces and gasps, only stopping when she is sure that Dany isn’t uncomfortable anymore. 

“You’ll need to take a few sips,” she says, bringing the spoon up. Dany almost gags when the muddy and rotten taste of the herb gets in contact with her tongue, the only reason she doesn’t heave being her body’s sheer exhaustion.

But it seems to make Gilly laugh. “I know it’s quite horrible, huh? But don’t worry since you’re awake I suspect you’ll only need a few more spoons today.” She sets the bowl down after four small spoons, wiping Dany’s mouth as the liquid waters the ache in her head, coats her gurgling stomach like cool water, making her sag in relief. 

Dany meets the woman’s eyes, managing a polite smile. “Th-thank you,” she croaks, surprised at how much more aware she feels only seconds after intake. 

Gilly gets up, dropping a sheet onto the ground to cover the mess, the grey fabric bleeding into a murky black. “Oh, that’s alright, we’re just glad you’re awake at least.”

That makes Dany furrow her brows, panicked and worried all at once. “How long have I been out?” she asks, gulping thickly. 

Gilly pauses, seemingly unsure if she should answer as she nervously meets Dany’s eyes before looking towards the door. Her fingers fumble into her layered dress as she murmurs, “I’m not…” she falters, blurting in the last second, “I’m going to go call Samwell and Wolkan.”

“Wait-” Dany bites her inner cheeks as her frail voice doesn’t voice out in time for Gilly’s rushing feet, making her groan. She’d prefer to know her physical state without an old man and slight stranger poking and prodding her body like an artifact while expecting her to remain mum. So, she sighs, annoyed, turning to peer at the weak rays peeking into the unfamiliar room. Is it the morning or evening? She can’t even tell anymore. Recently the sun has welcomed them only a spare number of hours, fully ignoring how the crops and flowers are beginning to wither like rotted trees without the contact. 

Dany’s stomach drops suddenly. Has it been too long perhaps? 

_Have I already handed the Night King a fated win?_ She thinks, throat tightening at the thought. How many meetings, decisions, choices has she missed out on that could well change the fate of not only her people from across the sea, but the new ones in this barren land? It’s as if the utter anxiety dulls her pain and discomfort, her body momentarily forgetting its foreign illness to seize with worry. 

“Daenerys-” Dany jolts at the sudden commotion as a crowd of six rush into the room, all talking equally as worried, joyful, and _loud_. 

Her heart is in her throat when Missandei’s warm eyes are puddling with tears, hands rushing to caress her face as she rapidly speaks hushed words in Valyrian ranging from, _you careless idiot_ to _I’m so so sorry_. 

Then comes Tyrion, who takes one look at her ashen state and stumbles back in relief, clamping a hand to his chest as he sighs out words of being in a state border-lining alcohol-poisoned out of worry, though Dany clearly doubts he needed a reason. 

After comes Sam clumsily carrying multiple bottles in his arms, then Arya whose face melts from steel to anger and finally to relief so gratingly obvious Dany isn’t sure she knows she’s being watched in the chaos. Jorah sweeps in next, letting out a shaky breath as he whispers in Dothraki a sweet prayer, making her heart so suddenly full of love. Her brain is twisting and shrinking with pulsating distress at the noise, but her heart is palpitating oddly with the sudden remembrance that perhaps she _is_ thought for, cared for, and worried-

She barely sees the grey-bearded man slowly making his way in for the quick blur of raven curls makes her chest constraint in what Dany can only describe as a dangerous concoction of joy, love, fear, and longing. 

Jon seems to be going through the same, for he merely waves off Davos and Gilly’s request to move as he carefully takes her in. His mouth gapes, brown eyes slowly looking from the puddle on the ground to the puddle under her, and finally to the matted strands of silver curled onto her forehead like a nest, and the warmth and fear with which he rests those orbs on her body make her shiver all over again. 

He gulps, and Dany takes the time with a throbbing throat to as well observe him, which isn’t any better of a state than her. His disheveled hair is nothing compared to the sunken hollows of his roughly-bearded cheeks; it seems like he’s eaten even less than her, the lines of his jaw sharper, making the bone look like jagged ice. 

As suddenly that she wanted to gather everyone around into a bear-hug, she wants to throw them out, one for the frantic noises and overwhelming use of such a tiny amount of space, and two for the simple fact that she wants nothing more than to heave him into her arms and sob into the crook of his neck. He seems to be troubled by something but swallows it down to paint his dry lips with a strained yet gentle smile. 

She expected indifference and anger from his side after her cruelty, it would only be fair after all, which is why is surprises her when he mouths, _how are you,_ the effortless consideration on his part making her heart flutter. 

Dany moves her hand to show a _so-so_ , biting back a girlish smile as he quirks his lips higher up.

Maester Wolkan is the first to command some order to the flock of people, clapping his hands harshly to shut their voices. “I think these many individuals at once is not particularly good for the Queen in such a weakened state, so only two of you in here, the rest out.” The group look at one another, quickly shutting Tyrion’s protest as Missandei and Jorah decide to stay, Dany biting her lips to quiet the need to plead for Jon. 

No one misses Tyrion’s muttering of, _I’m still her bloody Hand,_ as Davos nudges him outside, making her two friends and the Maester all roll their eyes.

“How do you feel, Your Grace?” Wolkan asks, setting down his and Samwell’s basket of bottle down onto a chair. 

Dany shrugs. “I’m alright, I guess. It just feels like my head has been stuck underwater for days.” “Well you did catch quite a mean fever,” he chuckles, pouring a swig of his chalky green substance into a cup, “I’m surprised you’re able to talk so soon considering how bad it had gotten the last few days.” 

“The last few days,” Dany freezes, meeting Missandei’s already concerned gaze as her breath hitches, “how-how long have I been out?” 

“Oh, let us not dwell on that right now.” Maester Wolkan rests the back of his hand on her cheek, momentarily distracting Dany from Missandei’s lowered eyes as he hums. “Well look at that,” he gleams, picking up the concoction, “you’re already cooling down as it is. That Mishi of yours is a quick thinker.” 

Dany clenches her teeth, the annoyance roaring in her throat. “Her name is _Mitthi_ , and I told you prior to this to take her advice first and foremost on matters related to my, or anyone’s health; she’s one of the most intelligent and useful individuals out there. Oh, and I do want to _dwell on it_ at the moment,” she finishes pointedly, satisfaction cooling her veins at the sheepish look on the Maester’s face. 

“If I have offended you, Your Grace-”

Dany lifts herself with Missandei’s hand as she swiftly grabs the potion from his quivering hand, gulping the dreadful liquid down in one go before interrupting him. “I don’t have time to be offended or angered. Use Mitthi to your advantage and tell me what in the gods name happened to my body.” 

Wolkan gulps, weakly taking the glass from her hand as he stutters. “Well, you’ve been ill for almost two weeks now, falling in and out of a high fever every few hours. From the way it took over you, I believe you’ll have to be on bedrest for quite a while.”

Dany gasps. “Two weeks?” she repeats harrowingly, looking to Missandei and Jorah for their confirmation. She swallows thickly when they nod, her head seemingly bludgeoned with a spurt of dizziness but this time it is not from her illness; rather, the shear stress coursing through her. She’s missed too much, perhaps enough for them to be at a disadvantage even. How many windows must she have missed of weakening his army on the back of Drogon? Or in the council meeting?

Her lips are dry, so she licks them. “Well, have you at least figured out what was the cause?” 

Dany has experienced her fair share of flus and illness but this…her heart sinks suddenly. She freezes, the horrible answer creeping into her mind. 

_Could it have been…_

No, she will not point fingers and let Arya’s paranoia get the best of her. At the first sign of strife she will not accuse others, what sets her apart from her father then? If she wants to be different than Cersei she has to understand that not everyone is out to get her; rather, sometimes it is her own foolish acts that cause her trouble. 

Maester Wolkan sighs, pulling her out of her troubling reverie, nodding. “I’m afraid we have…” he meets her frowning advisors’ eyes nervously, only continuing when they nod gravely. Wolkan clears his throat, hunching around to grab a wobbly stool by her bed. “You see, it seems to be due to poisoning. No fever with such reverberations can occur naturally. Though luckily we were able to extract the poison before it could perform its full due.” 

Dany’s stomach drops, the air taken right out of her throat. _No_. She looks tentatively at Jorah, eyes watery and needy for confirmation. But he doesn’t have to speak, the answer clear as day of his miserable face. 

“It-it must be a mistake,” she murmurs weakly, throat already palpitating with an ache, “she was just a little girl.” It cannot be true, it _cannot_. No one would go out of their way to condone such a young child into carrying through with such horrendous actions, not here. 

They sit silently, all eyes bowed down with shame. “It can’t,” she insists through a hiccup, swatting Missandei’s hand away as she hisses her way to lay against the headboard. “These are Northerners, they-they’re good people, they’re _honourable_.” They have to be, they’re Jon’s people. He would never let such a thing be done under his watch. _He would never let anything happen to me, he promised, he promised me._

Their continuing reluctance to speak agitates her, her upper lip curling over teeth. “Missandei,” she growls, lifting her friends head to meet her red eyes. They’re so sad, brimming with worry, reminding Dany of Rhaegal and Drogon’s glassy eyes when they scrambled back to Eastwatch. Dany falters, frowning through the wobbling of her lips. 

“Arya tracked down the girl’s whereabouts a few days ago,” Missandei sniffs, gently running a hand over Dany’s wet cheek, her voice becomes small, like a wailing ghost. “We found Tears of Lys in her bedroom.” 

“Why-” she swallows the lump in her throat, insistent, “How could a child possibly attain such a deadly poison?”

Jorah shakes his head, the faint scars on his face curved downwards. “We’re not sure yet, _Khaleesi_. Luckily the dosage was small enough to not have any lasting effects, which at the very least tells us that she is unaccustomed to doing something like this. Though, the girl seems to not want to cooperate as well. She won’t speak to anyone, not even informing us of her name or family.” He squeezes her shoulder, the look of his face so similar to when he informed her of his grey-scale; a mixture of defeat and frustration. “I’ve placed a group of people in charge to investigate into the incident, however it seems that no one in Winterfell or Wintertown has any recollection of ever seeing the girl.” 

Dany’s eyes widen at his words, heart beating faster. “So, it could’ve been Cersei’s doing?” Poisoning by her enemy is logical, it makes _sense_. A bizarre sense of relief floods into her. 

She’s faced worse than Cersei in her lifetime, and a mere poisoning by her means nothing. Mirri Maz Duur made a false vow to her, Xaro Xhoan Daxos convinced her dear friend to betray her, the rich of Meereen had promised to change for her. Stranger’s afflictions are nothing to Daenerys Stormborn, nothing.

Her moment of relief is ripped to shreds when Dany takes notice of their silence. It’s like a cold dagger tore her stitched wounds into ribbons, the blood inking out in slow drops. _No, no, no._

“ _Khaleesi_ I’m sorry-”

“Who would do this to me?” she wobbles out, desperate for some kind of logical answer. “What could I possibly done to-” She’s given, and given to these Northerners, opened her heart for these strangers, swore to protect these strangers, and as a show of gratitude they…

She put her trust in the hands of strangers and they went out of their way to almost destroy her. Why? Because of a long-running hatred of her family? Is it possible for people to commit such heinous crimes on someone who has done nothing but help and support?

It’s like a gust of frigid gale when it suddenly hits her. 

_My name is Aegon Targaryen._

Who could possibly afford to quietly pay a desperate young child in need of some coins with no trace? Who has the most gain from her falling? 

“Who knows about Jon?” Dany seethes, harsh and guttural. It takes them off guard, Missandei looking up with puzzlement. But she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care about anything at the moment. She just needs to know, to make _sense_ of this. 

Jorah quickly takes notice of Wolkan’s confused look at her words, the grasp on her shoulder tensing. “ _Khaleesi_ , I don’t think this is the best time-”

Her heart curdles with a poisonous rage. She feels her blood bubble. Breath fast, ragged. She’s been so foolish; _gods,_ Tyrion was right. He was right all along. Jorah knows too, Missandei does as well. If her entire group of advisors know, the question remains really who _doesn’t_ know of his identity now? 

_I let him do this to me, I let him pollute my brain, my heart._

She trusted him to be cautious with this knowledge. She told him people aren’t as pure-hearted as him, and he still went out of his noble way to tell others. Now it’s poisoned her legacy, poisoned her mind and body. She told him how cruel people are, told him how important this win is for her. Gods, how she had actually expected someone to remain faithful to her wishes? _You’re not a silly little girl, and you still let this happen,_ she scolds herself, her breath hyperventilating, stinging with the need to sob. _A silly little idiot who put her faith in a man._

“Daenerys?” Missandei cups Dany’s face, her skin paling, “Dany, what’s wrong? You’re breathing so fast-”

It’s almost as if in her anger she’d forgotten about that throb in her brain, because it suddenly twists, more painful than she’s ever felt. Dany’s vision blurs, a wave of dizziness heaving into her system and she’s falling again, falling and falling till Missandei’s voice is but a buzz in her ringing ears. _I let this happen… I did this…. I trusted…_

A dragon does not plant trees, Viserys had once warned her. 

Perhaps he was right, perhaps her brother wasn’t so mad after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] _Khaleesi_ , do not trust the people with milk skin. They only see you with poison in their eyes.
> 
> [2]She is but a child, there is no harm in the young Qhono.
> 
> [3]People only use the young for their games, you should understand than most.
> 
> [4]Do you take me for a fool?


	9. Offer me that deathless death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _My life is lived in dreams now,_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Just a word, be patient with Dany, I promise it's worth it!

_Is this what being on house arrest feels like?_ Dany wonders drunkenly, her eyes lazily watching the small crystals of snow plastering onto her windowsill. 

The talk with Missandei and Jorah feels like a far-away dream. As if in desperation to feel like she has been living, her mind fabricated the whole thing. She almost believes it, like life has all been one long…long dream. 

Sometimes she wonders if her body is frozen now. The speed with which her mind is running nowadays seems to not match how sluggish her body has become, which counteracts with her helpless head bashing with shooting pains, leaving her paralyzed into sleep. 

Maester Wolkan keeps telling her that the only way for her to get better is if she sleeps, _you have to rest, Your Grace,_ he keeps chastising to the point that it’s become a chant in her head. But what will happen if she closes her eyes? Will yet another poor child chained with thirst and starvation slip into her room, but instead of poisoning her, pierces her weak heart with a steel and sharp dagger? 

It wouldn’t surprise her.

She screams at first. She screams and screams and screams till her throat cries with pain from being shaved raw. 

_Let me out, let me out_ , she moans and groans. Then she tries commanding her guards, bellowing at them to let her out.

Their heads tilt down more and more as they silently take in her blows. She needs to leave, to find who did this to her. She wants to see Drogon’s hot flames turn them into blowing embers.

Yet when she desperately tries prying herself off the mattress in the short window where she is left alone it feels like metal has filled her veins, her body kissing the cold floor before she can even try to move a step. She cries, thankfully able to get someone's attention as they help her gulp down the substance that has become her ambrosia. 

Master Wolkan says it is a double dose of her headache sedative. Apparently it’s supposed to counter-react with the lasting effects of most unsuccessful poisons. 

But…but Dany feels like the more she takes it the worse her mind is deteriorating. He says that’s a side-effect, and that while her mind may weaken her body will become stronger than ever. When she gulps it down, she can’t seem to argue with him anymore. 

It seems though, like every time her mouth opens to speak, someone is shoving yet another concoction down her throat, like they’re afraid of what she’s wail out. The world numbs when another spoon enters her mouth, and she can only be grateful for the sweet moments of no pain, no devastation. 

~

When her exhaustion prevents her from rebelling anymore she drowns in her silent bed, waking up every few hours to eat and take her drink. It becomes a cycle, Dany doesn’t know for how long, but the taste of the drink becomes like mother’s milk to a babe. 

She remembers Mitthi telling her that she is apparently getting better when her eyes peeled open one day. Her sweet friend is actually smiling, whispering happily that they should start walking, and perhaps they can walk outside even. But Dany feels like a rock is pressed into her brain. She should be getting better. 

Though she doesn’t state her concern, so happy in Mitthi’s joy to inform something dire yet again. She tells Dany that people can finally see her again if she’d like, she’s healing, she says. 

Regardless of her head, Mitthi is right in some regards. Her body does feel less leaden than before. Her arms and legs don’t feel like they are getting pricked with sharpened needles every millisecond, her lungs aren’t heaving to produce oxygen anymore. So yes, she technically is getting better. 

_It will get better_ , she convinces herself. _I will heal._

~

It takes a good few days of being plastered to her bed before Dany can so much as hobble onto her feet. Her head still feels like it's stuck half-way into a lake, sounds wavered, vision watery. Luckily her spout of nausea that had agitated her for weeks before the incident miraculously has not resurfaced meaning she can chew down bits of food without spilling it onto the floor hours later. 

She can sit up at least, stay awake for longer than 30 minutes. When she informs Mitthi, she can’t even yelp out a protest before Mitthi tells her that people can visit her now. 

People come by quite often, either for her stamp of approval on decisions, or to make sure another wave of sickness does not enter her system again. And it takes every last drop of her zeal to think like a queen again, to think like Daenerys Stormborn. She can’t let people start doubting her conviction after all. 

Tyrion, unfortunately, seems to come in the most out of all, his instigation on the clear events of that particular day never cease to make him forget to as well go through his mind-numbing list of political maneuvering. He pokes her for details but doesn’t understand how much it’s hurting her head just to recount memories at the moment. All Dany can seem to understand is how aware she was then, and now how dead her mind seems to be. 

Often she watches him as he vigorously scrolls her commands down. Takes a great deal of time to look at his azure-coloured irises. 

_Are you hiding from me as well?_ She desperately wants to ask. _Did you help in my demise?_

It wouldn’t be hard for her curiosity to be proven right. He’s a Lannister, that too a merciful one who tends to care all too much about his wretched sister’s life. 

Tyrion takes what he can get from her mumbling, most likely making great assumptions with what little she can give. Her mind wants to move, to run and feel cold air again, but her body only seems to want sleep. 

It’s odd, being asked to decide hundreds upon hundreds of issues while simultaneously being unaware of what is truly happening in regard to said decisions. Dany quickly whispers her answers to questions, approving on choices before letting sleep overtake her. 

Sweet, show sweet sleep is. Her mind is so awake when she’s asleep, like it used to be. Things aren’t greyed and watery in her vision when she’s dreaming, they’re more alive than ever, they’re bright and vivacious, so full of life. 

She sees memories in her dreams, she sees herself in her dreams; alive, aware, brimming with thoughts and a vigour to do change. On the off chance she can speak with her sons again, feel that steady but faint thrum of their beating hearts align with hers, it’s as if everything is back to normal. They’re beating heart remind her of their shared blood, the blood of Valyria. In her dreams they understand, not just the ones who call her _Mhysa_ , but her babies as well. They can feel her sorrow, the caving hollow that’s deep within her chest, they feel, and they fill the gaping hole with their unrelenting love and absolute faith. 

In her dreams she’s whole again. 

But then her eyes are painfully opened, and it feels like everything has been blotted with ink. 

She wants to sleep; she wants to be alive. _I want to be Daenerys Stormborn, not a lifeless corpse._

While it’s not that she doesn’t have faith in Jorah and Missandei knowing how to make sure her words aren’t twisted, it’s just frustrating how helpless it makes her feel like she is some ancient wise man who is only spoken to when in need, and then kept in solitude in a barren room. 

The solitude tends to make her feel like a damsel in distress, oh the poor princess who was wounded and now needs justice given by powerful men, like she suspects people believe her to be like. 

After sensing the vein on her forehead has thrummed enough for the day, Tyrion tends to quickly scamper out of the room before Mitthi or the Maester come in, the worried and lasting look in his eyes not missed by her. 

They both inform her on their progress with the fully retracting the lasting effects of the poison, though the way Mitthi helplessly stares when she thinks Dany isn’t aware, makes it seem like the Maester is more talk than show at the moment. The worse is that every time she attempts to speak with Mitthi alone, wanting to get her honest opinion on the true state of their research, the Maester always swoops her away before she can so much as whisper a word in Dothraki, compelling Dany to bite her tongue before she orders Maester Wolkan to be exiled. 

A muddle mixture of Arya, Grey Worm, Qhono, and Jorah tend to waver in and out of her chambers.

Grey Worm and Qhono direly inform her with lowered-eyes about the tense training on the grounds outside, the anger between the Northerners and the Dothraki and Unsullied seeming to have only heightened after news of her alleged-poisoning broke out. Every day Grey seems to speak with her, the thick lines of tension on his forehead only seem to deepen, voice becoming graver and anger spiking more quickly. She wants to help, desperately she wants to run out of this dreadful room and speak to them all, try to make them understand that their cooperation is the only way they’ll win, but the mere thought of leaving her bed make her mind wail, makes her remembers that it could be anyone of those soldiers who did this to her. 

They both try convincing her that Jon and Sansa have been attempting to settle the brawls as civilly as they can but there’s only so much they can vow to people that don’t trust them, and perhaps who they don’t trust as well. Unbeknownst to commanders, the mention of their names ignites her wrath, making her hiss through gritted teeth that they will now be fully responsible for writing the names of each man contending in these brawls. She’s had enough letting the Starks have responsibilities. 

Dany tries pulling the blatant facts out of Arya when she stays awake a little longer than usual, worried that her commanders are softening the blow of the only heightening issue. Arya being obstinate, stays as hard as a brick wall, attempting to distract Dany with informing the progress Gendry’s made on her armour, trying to sprinkle in some amusing anecdotes that she thinks will distract her from the pain. All it feels like she's reminiscing about the last good stories to a dying patient, feigning like death isn’t impatiently waiting at the door. 

_Perhaps I will go mad_ , Dany thinks to herself out of spite after the umpteenth time of someone not meeting her eyes. At least she’d be giving the people what they want. At least she’d be able to get out of this damn room and _do_ something finally. She’d be able to at least tell people that she isn’t a damsel who’ll be taken advantage of anymore, and perhaps make them show even a speck of gratitude for her efforts. 

She’s tired of people watching her worriedly, sweetening words to soften harsh blows of the cracks that are being left behind in her constant absence. As if it’ll lessen what has been done to her, what she is to these people. 

Dany sips on her ambrosia. 

~

“Somethings wrong,” she murmurs groggily to Tyrion, cutting off his listing of new supplies shipped in from White Harbour. 

He pauses, hesitant. “About?” 

“About this,” she gestures weakly to her head, as it lays on the headboard, “it should be getting better.” 

“Nonsense,” Tyrion says carefully, patting her limp hand, “it’ll pass. It always does, Your Grace. You are the Queen of the Seven Kingdom, but you are as well human. Your immunity cannot be as fierce as your zeal.” He chuckles at his own quip, the sound dying off when she continues to stare blankly at the window. The frost has permanently begun residing on the corners of the glass panel, the shapes so breathtaking. 

“I was poisoned Tyrion,” she states, as if new information. 

His head falls, quill dropped onto the papers. “I know, Your Grace.” 

Unwillingly her eyes water again, throat quivering. “By a child. By a little girl.” 

For the life of her she cannot understand why the notion will not peel away from her mind, as if a toxic leech, reappearing in her mind every other breath. And every time it does bob back into her thoughts she’s left into a puddle of misery. 

“Is your head hurting?” he asks. The Maester seems to have informed everyone entering her room to ask the same question, as if she wouldn’t take notice. She scowls inwardly, knowing Wolkan only doing this because he doesn’t believe her concerns, as if she’d willingly make up such a façade. 

“No,” she lies. The pain is constant, but it’s become second nature to endure it now, like taking in sharp breathes. 

“I’m not supposed to tell you…” Tyrion hesitates, snatching her attention. 

Dany sharply glance sat his nervous eyes. “What?” she urges. 

Exhaling, he rubs his thumb along his creased forehead. “Jorah thinks he’s figured out who tried this idiocy.” 

“Who?” she can already taste the satisfaction of Drogon turning Lord Glover into a pile of ashes. 

He shakes his head, hesitant as he takes in the cold steeliness of her eyes. “I’m not sure, he won’t tell me. Though it seems that they all came to know about…” Tyrion trails off, both knowing the end of his sentence. 

Dany swallows thickly. “They know about Jon, don’t they?” He doesn’t have to answer, as his miserable hitch of breath is enough of a confirmation. _They wanted you dead,_ is the answer spoken in his silence, making her slump. 

Trust is a vile disease. 

~

“It’s getting colder,” Dany mumbles, meeting Tyrion’s eyes instead of looking down at the list of their last suspects. “Isn’t it.” 

“Y-yes it is.” 

If she had energy to snap at his patronizing nod Dany would, but then her brain would be sucked of its last spouts. So, she swallows down her threat thickly, fingers unconsciously curling to grip a phantom cup. 

“He’s coming.” 

Tyrion doesn’t ask who’s in question, everybody knowing the doomed _who_ even in their dreams. “He hasn’t moved in a while actually. It seems like he’s staying put in Last Hearth.”

She stares at him instead of appreciating the good news, almost taking amusement in his clear discomfort. 

“Have you sworn fealty to Sansa?” her tone is almost teasing if it isn’t for the deadly look of her violets. She’s not sure why that’s the thought that comes to her head, but it’s an inevitability that’s been creeping there for all too long. 

Her Hand is smart. He’s drawn to power, and power can only be emulated by people with a working mind. He is also not subtle at the way he watches Sansa, the admiration in his blue eyes ever missed by Dany in the Great Hall. At first she had assumed there was an untold story behind their forced and apparent lack-luster marriage. But now…

Tyrion cocks his head back, gaping and shocked. “Daenerys how-how could you possibly think I’d do something like that you?” his voice almost waivers with emotion, taken aback. 

Her shoulders simply shrug. “You said it yourself. You’ve been in the Great Game for a while.”

“So?”

Dany blinks, tracing a dirty-blond ringlet kissing his forehead. “So,” she croons, “I am clearly losing. Your Queen was foolish enough to trust a stranger, and now can’t even form a sentence without becoming dizzy.” 

It takes her a good few minutes to feel his rough fingers enclose around hers, they’re tight, twitching. “I would never, Daenerys,” he speaks unusually soft, “You’re the Queen I chose to assist, and not as a leisure activity but as a genuine want to serve the realm with a true leader.” 

Another time Dany would savour this moment. Not just because emotions and Tyrion are rarely harmonious, but because of the diligence painting his face. 

Yet it seems that all her mind can replay is the quick whispers she’s witnessed between Tyrion and Varys, or him and Sansa before meeting. The urgency with which he murmurs things before catching sight of her, the intelligent plotting the demise of the foolish dreamer. 

“You. Lie.” Dany gulps, the stone in her throat stubborn to stay.

She doesn’t remember when she had begun crying but her cheeks are wet, and she feels him feebly trying to wipe them away. He’s weeping too, she thinks, barely seeing his body through her watery sight. _Perhaps he’s weeping for the Queen who once was._

The pain is coming back. Thrumming and thrumming till it becomes a harsh bashing against her skull. 

“Give me-” she cries, desperately dragging her fingers to the side table. Tyrion scrambles to catch the glass before it tips over, carefully dipping it to meet her lips. 

“Better?” he questions through tears, eyes wide and harrowing. 

_Yes it is_ , she sings to herself, slumping down onto her heady-scented bed, _because I can dream now._

~

The one thing that keeps irritating her is that she can’t tell if he’s come to see her or not. Perhaps it’s the sickness speaking but she _swears_ he has at least once. 

Her vision may be muddled but her sense of smell has never been more heightened. Once, when she had rolled over to grab a sip, the scent had suddenly infiltrated her senses. 

Pine, leather, the North, _Jon_. 

It was so unexpected that Dany had managed to lift herself up and stare at the spot on the sheets, like it was a stain of wine on white sheets. Barely there, it was so faint, like a whiff of dinner one catches as they pass houses on the street. 

Everything seemed so clear, so bright in the moment, so desperate is she for a sense of him anywhere. Her fingers gently traced the spot, like they were grazing a grave, witnessing the evidence of a ghost. 

How many times must’ve he come into her room without her knowledge? Just…staring, probably remorseful, probably worried. Gods, _everyone_ is always worried for her. 

She almost called for her guards to ask if her suspicions were true but knew that if right, they’ll most likely lie to calm her down. And if not, they’ll call her delirious once again. There’s no reason for her to want to see him, knowing full well that the sight of his ravens will inflame her spite, make her spit out her words of anger. _How could you? How fucking foolish are you, Jon Snow?_

But there’s a gnawing tug elsewhere in her heart as well, one she crushes with her bare fingers before it can bloom. She won’t be foolish enough to let it flourish. 

~

She wants to see her children. 

Dany’s fingers twitch on the mattress at the remembrance of their hot scales. To feel her fingers curve with the expansion of their bodies as they take in a deep gulp of air, to close her eyes and just be. Be their mother, their companion.

Just the mere thought of them makes Dany’s ache in her chest. Are they eating? Sometimes their worries for her overtake their sense of survival and she has to coerce them into finally eating after constant reassurances. Now that she is not there for them who is? Dany wonders if anyone even takes a moment to look up and observe the most magical beings on earth anymore or are they sad songs like their mother. 

Her sons wouldn’t look at her with farce commiseration. They’d meet her gaze with chins held up high as they push her into standing, into being the mother they know who bows to no one, not even herself. They’d toss her with their great wings till their love and devotion compelled her into being alive again. 

~

If she breathes very shallowly, Dany can feel it. 

Taking her so off guard the first time she must’ve stayed awake for the whole night, not wanting the ambrosia to dampen her senses of it. 

It’s almost like how Rhaegal’s paw had felt on her belly when just a babe, whining at her lack of constant and undivided attention. 

The joy quickly dies when she tries recollecting it the next day whilst daydreaming through Tyrion’s now curtesy-deliverance of news. He doesn’t have to inform her -they both silently know- for what can a lifeless body do to change things now? Yet he still takes the time to form a list every day. 

She frowns. Her mind pulsates, drags through her memories like a weak rake through gluey mud. Dreams are clearer than reality now. Dany can recall them like her favourite lines of old books she’d read. 

Was it real then? Or yet another dream? 

Mirri’s words, so cold and haunting echo in her ears, fabricating a worse notion that plunders the rest. _It seems my fate is as cursed as my womb._

The thought is so horrendous, so devastating that Dany wails loudly, not shocking Tyrion. He already has the glass ready for her. 

_My life is lived in dreams now,_ she paralyzingly comes to understand, already feeling the ambrosia loosen her awareness till the waiting for yet another sweet dream overtakes her.

~

“When will I be well again,” she groans out, not only from anger but from the throbbing pain in her neck as Mitthi helps her walk. 

Mitthi shakes her head solemnly, avoiding her pale violets almost guiltily. “I’m not sure _Khaleesi_. Maester Wolkan says-”

It’s like an icicle snapping with a _crack._

“Maester Wolkan wants me bed-ridden for the rest of my life it seems,” she snaps, biting her tongue instantly in regret. It feels like a fist is wrangling her brain between its fingers.

Dany pushes her eyes shut, sighing. “Gods, I’m-I’m so sorry Mitthi, I didn’t mean to…” she trails off, dizzy just from the effort of speaking and walking at the same time. She curses inwardly. 

She had woken up that morning with a shocking amount of vitality and promised herself to at least stroll out of the doors for once. Now, she drained herself before more than ten steps could be produced. 

Mitthi gently helps her onto the mattress, passing over the chalky drink into her hands. “It’s alright, _Khaleesi_ ,” she speaks quietly, “I’d be frustrated as well if I was stuck in a room for so long. But it’s for your safety, for your health.” 

The throbs blissfully waters down the moment the guzzled liquid touches her stomach. Her mind is screaming for her to sleep, but she needs to know, she can’t rest till she knows. 

“Mitthi,” Dany clumsily tugs her friend’s hands into her own, surprising her, “be honest. What is happening to me?” 

Mitthi shakes her head rapidly, Dany can feel her fingers trembling under her shockingly strong grip. “ _Khaleesi_ you’re hurting me,” she yelps, stepping back to peel her now red fingers away from Dany’s iron-grip. 

“Oh,” Dany hand retracts quickly, eyes not able to help but gaze upon her own shaking fingers. 

_No, no, no._ Dany’ stomach drops at the odd look in Mitthi’s eyes. To her horror, the slow realization comes in that its _fear_ , actual tangible fear. A flash of harsh stinging attacks her eyes and they begin to water, body paralyzed. She’s making people afraid of her now, people who respect her love her, the few who still want her alive she supposes.

It’s even worse when the terrifying thought of this happening before creeps into her mind. 

_No,_ she manages to bellow into her own mind, _I am not him. I will never be._

“I’m so sorry Mitthi,” Dany croaks, eyes swimming with tears. Gods, it feels like nothing she’s doing is helping. Her so-called advice to Tyrion doesn’t change the facts that Cersei now has the Golden Company behind her, the Night King has everything North of Last Hearth, and Winterfell is on the brink of an internal and external war. 

She’s supposed to protect people, solve the genuinely pressing problems of people and yet she can’t even get men to stop their petty fights to save humanity. 

And now she’s making people worried and worse, _afraid_. If there was one thing Daenerys vowed to never have in common with the men who came before her is fear. It’s toxic, dangerous, and lays the groundwork for a society that bears the heavy load of the rich onto their tired backs. 

Realizing too late, she’s weeping. It’s a culmination of all too many things she’s having to carry on her exhausted mind and Mitthi’s soft eyes darkening with fear is the last rock to fall. 

“ _Khaleesi_ ,” she speaks softly, the moment of fear forgotten as she sits on her haunches to cup Dany’s face. 

Her soft words do little to reassure her worries, in fact they only make her more miserable. “I’m failing everyone,” she cries, lips wobbly and wet with her fat teardrops. “I’m failing as a queen, as a leader, a mother, and a human being. I can’t protect myself, how am I supposed to do it for others?” 

For once her mind isn’t damp with spiking pain, rather; the dull ache of grief and helplessness, Dany notices when her forehead doesn’t dance with pain. She’s not sure if it’s any consolation though. 

“No, no,” Mitthi murmurs, nestling Dany’s forehead into the crook of her neck. She sweetly pets her withered silver hair, soothing her fingers down. “This will pass,” she chants, so earnest that Dany almost wants to believe her. 

~

She dreams of riding Drogon’s back. 

The three-forked river is frozen, pale and so thickly iced that Dany barely registers that is was once a body of water. Like everything else, the life, the agility of the water succumbed to the King of Night’s wishes. 

The cool air of the sky harshly enters her lungs, but she loves it. It’s like gulping frigid water down a parched throat. They’re so elevated in the sky that the flakes of snow slap onto her face and neck like little daggers. She feels Drogon’s hot scales thrumming under her gloved palms, nothing can hide his warmth from her. 

She sees him. 

His crystal skin glows with the twinkling frost painting his face, eyes the colour of desolation and death. He’s on a horse, rather than Viserion which she finds odd. Dragons are the most powerful creature to ever step foot onto earth, she can remember Viserys hauntingly whispering to her. 

He’s staring at the army on the ground, the vast land dotted with furs of the Dothraki, Unsullied, and Northmen. 

When she edges nearer, just enough for him to not be able to see her through the clouds, though he must sense it, but enough for her to actually gaze upon his sallow and pale features, she sees his crown-like horns. They’re almost elegant, if you forget the fact that they almost look like icicles melted onto his head. 

She never got time to properly gaze upon him at Eastwatch, the bareness of beyond the Wall and the genuine terror of thousands of violent manic weapons of war scrambling to tear apart her, the foolish men who went on the expedition, and her children overwhelming her. 

He’s so still, rigid to the point that if he didn’t tilt his head to get a good look of her army she’d think he was a statue made of ice. Scaly fingers painted with a murky glass-like sheen elegantly hold the reins to his zombified horse. 

Curiously she follows his gaze, caressing Drogon to dip a little lower, just enough…

Like a punch to the gut her eyes trail to Arya and Bran. She wants to scream. She wants to bellow out that _you will not harm another human. I am the Breaker of Chains, and I will protect them from your wretched-_

Like a boulder pummeling to the ground, his eyes gravitate towards her, so suddenly it happens that it takes her aback. _So beautiful,_ she thinks to her surprise, expecting her body to freeze with horror. 

A seven-pointed stars replace the spot where his iris should be, darker blue. It is surrounded by the colour of blue magma, so alive is the colour that Dany wonders if it is perhaps fire. She remembers learning that the hottest fires are never red, but blue, so hot that anything around it fragments at contact. 

Perhaps he is fire-made flesh as well. Perhaps they are not all so different.

~

She wishes she could take back the request to meet people. 

It seems painfully confirm Dany’s suspicion that people are thinking the worst is upon them. That, the poor Drogon Queen has fallen off the edge, the madness of her father has finally doomed her as well in the aftermath of betrayal. 

When Missandei comes in she tries to reassure her. If anyone can believe her, it is Missandei of Naath. _I am not my father,_ she trembles out, tightly holding her sister’s hand, _I will never be him._

Her friend tries reassuring Dany that she believes her, that no amount of lousy gossip by bored maids can break the faith she has for her. And Dany wants to believe that as well, so desperately wants to believe that, but her sickness doesn’t make her an idiot, she’ll give herself that. 

More than anything she cannot stand the pity. 

It’s such a…cheap emotion, pity, only making one feel worse about their situation as they come to understand that more people are aware of the ‘tragic’ story. Dany understood at a young age that pity was, but a pleasantry given by rich men who never batted a lash at her poverty. 

Now it feels like the only thing she can possibly receive from humans. 

Most visits shorten through the weeks till they are shredded to the bone, most likely courtesy conversations with their dying queen. Even Davos surmises the courage to face her one afternoon, which is more than his king can say. 

He tells her about the recent flash blizzards that have barricaded the scouters from going more than a kilometer without becoming severely lost. The lines of stress that erase into his hairline deepen as he speaks, grave but gentle. 

“We’ve lost about five men to the storms just in the last moon.” 

Dany frowns anxiously. It often feels like the Night King is prodding at them, chipping away their power and force bit by bit till they turn into a pile of dusted glass. 

She feels a pang of frustration settle low in her belly. If she could just speak with her son, open her mind up only enough to communicate her wishes to them. Perhaps they can clear pathways for scouters, or themselves scavenge from the skies for the main cause of these abruptions. 

Instead of croaking her frustration into existence she nods. “Thank you Ser Davos.” She swallows a beat, hoping she can still make her voice light enough. “I’m grateful for your candor.” 

The old man smiles sadly, taking her in for a breath before patting her hand. “It’ll get better Your Grace,” he says, the gruff voice unable to hide the sweetness of his sad eyes, “I know it will.” 

~

Often she dreams of his creamy-gold scales. Her shyest boy. 

If her sleep is deep enough, she can almost smell him too; the heavy scent of charred bones and grass. Viserion loved grass. 

She imagines him dozing off between the wispy tall green and yellow grasses, the feathery ends almost tickling his belly. He’s but a babe, scales so fragile and sensitive to the grass that when he topples over onto his belly from contact, squirming and screeching, Dany lets out a soft giggle. Her sweet, clumsy boy. 

In her dreams her sweet son kills for food, and food only. His scorching flames only providing the four of them with hearty meals, and pretty designs of charred plants in the vast fields. He loves the rain too, shrieking in joy at the sensation of cool, fat droplets painting his thin skin, even attempting to coerce his brothers into the heavy downpours. 

He likes bringing her gifts, being such a mama’s boy that he is. Sometimes with him are half-wilted leaves, indented with his small but deadly vipers, others being sour juniper berries, the dark juices of squashed ones painting his mouth like lip paints. Dany grins at his efforts, eyeing the almost smug look etched onto his little face at his scouring brothers, hoping to impress their mother as well. 

They curl around her in the gentle fields after a day of playing and scouting, growling like pups in the night. Dany likes to believe that they are cooing, whispering to the gods to grant their mother a dreamless sleep. 

Reality inevitably inks into her serenity, tainting the pretty picture, harshly snatching her breath away. 

In her dreams, the once soft, round eyes of her gentle boy become poisoned, mutilated into a gutting and deathly blue. Desperately, perhaps even foolishly, she tries calling for him as his crackly and withered wings soar into the dull winter skies. _Viserion_ , she wails, helplessly watching him spit blue flames across bellowing and scrambling common folks till the stench of slow burning flesh nauseates her, _come to me, come back to your family._ It’s a sickly blue, his once vivacious flames, as if a polished sapphire had slowly decayed, rotting to its ugly core, disfigured and muted. 

Does he feel anything anymore, when the Night King mounts his skinned back, commanding him to enslave thousands? Does he feel those small sensations as he once had, when he fit right into the palm of his mother’s hand; the simple, healing, caring ones? 

When she sees the Night King’s dragon now, this vile, zombified engine of death and slavery, Dany can’t help but wonder if _he_ still lives. Underneath the cold, undead flesh, is there the warm and beating heart of her sweet, screaming for help, wailing for his mother? She can’t as well help but wonder if he blames her, seethes at her sighting. 

The breaker of chains that chained her son; twice. 

She wouldn’t blame him. Her sweet, gentle boy. 

~

It’s so dark in her room that the soft sound barely registers in her ears, her body having awaken in dear need of her ambrosia. 

At first Dany freezes, her whole body stiffening into iron in sheer panic. The foreboding thought is so quick to come, like wind tangling a newly bloomed batch of long-stemmed flowers, making her fingers shake as she wonders, lying very still in her mattress that perhaps she had just heard a stranger enter her room. 

She closes her suddenly hyper-alert eyes, squeezes them shut in desperate hope that the noise just nothing but a creak of old floorboards. Blocking out the barely-there light does little as the noise repeats itself, now even closer. 

Her throat almost vibrates with the sheer force of panic strangling to scream out of her quivering body as the figure comes nearer and nearer. It’s almost immediately that she figures it’s not Mitthi, her last bubble of delusional hope bursting cruelly. The movements are too light, as if the feet of a dancer. They pause, letting Dany furiously gape into the ember-coloured tint of her darkened room so she can possibly decipher a shape, to see if some kind of adrenaline can help her take down the mystery person. She barely has time to register her thoughts before they’re stepping within the hitch of her breath right to the side of her bed. 

A nail, a sliver of wood, _something_. Dany feverishly attempts to recall Mitthi placing anything remotely useful in her room to puncture the person’s neck, perhaps just prick through their skin enough for her to scamper out of the room; though she understands before her very alert mind can skim through her series of images that her friend would not be stupid enough to anyways. Maybe she should scream. Her voice is loud, and surely someone will arrive shortly if she’s put in enough energy. 

But if this person is in her room, does that mean that they passed by her guards? 

Dany’s stomach twists. What if they murdered her guards, her confidants, and their blood was gruesomely seeping through the small sliver of her door? 

She feels the person’s warmth before seeing their figure, her shoulders immediately burrowing deep into the bed, as if the act could somehow swallow her from their greedy grasp. For some reason the swift realization and distinction that the shape is too broad to be a woman makes her gut drop, straining and squeezing like a rope with sheer fear. 

Is this her last night? Dany thinks as the sound of the man’s shallow breath tickles goosebumps down her sweat-cladded spine. Will they speak of the Mother of Dragons whose unsavoury death occurred when a sharp knife slit through her neck one gloomy winter night?

There’s nothing more than a hair of a second of pure, unadulterated fear that freezes her to the marrow of her bones before the scent fills her nose. 

She suddenly wishes there was a possible way to encapsulate the scent, so comforting and warm is it, that all Dany wants is to drench every corner of her room-turned-ward with it. It’s like her body functions more on memories and dreams than the very state of life, as she draws the picture of Jon with her eyes. Like a chunk of thick ice under the beaming sun she instantly melts, every ounce of worry and fear turning into nothing but a futile puddle of water. 

_Jon_ , in living flesh and bones. She almost assumed he wasn’t living in her dimensions anymore, as his absence had become as common as feathers on a bird. 

The scent of snow and pine is much stronger than usual, she understands as he seems to gently scrape a chair by her side. The Godswood. He spoke quite often of its lure, the silence and power that emanated through every last root seated deeply into the ground. 

If she was snarky enough, Dany would fix up a jest on his permanent residence by the eerie tree, but all she can do in the moment is watch, paralyzed, feeling as if she shouldn’t even be here in this private moment. 

Through the small slit of her barely opened lids, she hungrily drinks in every last inch of the face scarcely visible. The painfully sad yet beautiful luminescence of the moon paints a glow across half his face, showing the small scar dragging from his sunken cheekbone to above his brow. It’s so familiar, so achingly soothing to her pounding heart that it stings her face into flooding tears. 

_I miss him,_ she suddenly cries to herself, _I miss what I am with him. Free, uncaring. I want to be free; I want to be loved; I want to love-_

His voice is so faint that it could be mistaken for the whistling of blizzards, but she recognized the tone. It’s the one he used to use when whispering to her on the boat, thinking she’s asleep from the shut eyelids. 

“What has happened,” he croaks, ghostly and faint. “What has happened to us; to you.” 

From the light she can see that his lips are trembling, the adam apple of his throat bobbing through every word. Dany wonders if he is aware of her being awake, the pounding of her heart so loud that she doubts otherwise.

The rough skin of his palm grazes up the clothes of her bed, the feel of it against her cold cheek almost like a burn, her body so aware of his every movement. Her hands begin trembling with the effort to not immediately grab the long fingers of his into her own; to let her lips kiss away the wobbly motion of his bones as he’s near her. 

Jon sniffles, crying, she realizes. It’s like a jagged knife lodged in her already broken heart. 

“I wasn’t there,” he starts, “I haven’t been here for…anything really. It’s so hard to explain it. It’s-it’s like I’m here, my body has been here, dragging itself through Winterfell this whole time. But the problem is my mind. My mind and heart have run away, hid far into the woods of the North. It’s been so long and all I feel is in its absence is…this empty hole where my being should be. You understand that, right?” 

Dany has to bite her tongue to not nod. She’s so entranced, barely taking in a breath in his presence, praying and screaming at her body to not make a movement that’ll break the spell. 

He shakes his head after a second, almost chuckling. “I don’t know why I’m even asking the question. You always understand, Daenerys, always. Not just me, but everyone.” He bites his upper lip, smiling if but a fraction, “That’s the magic of you really.”

She can hear his sharp intakes of breath, as if his mind is begging him to keep on speaking, his lips having to shut the urge with a _snap_ like a caged rabid animal. It almost tempts her to speak and let her awareness be revealed. _Tell me,_ she almost begs, _tell me please. Share your grief with me, share you joy and sorrows. Let me forget myself for once._

He’s staring at her. Dany doesn’t recognize it till she can see the glistening of his shiny eyes. They look like they’ve been painted with the moon’s crescent, with the way it’s melancholy radiance glows on his honeyed orbs. 

Too late does she realize those same beautiful eyes are now coated with a sheen, soon flooding all the way to the thick and sooty fans of his lashes.

It quells her trembling throat with its dolefulness, makes her all too aware of the silhouette shaking against the pretty moon. 

_Is he mourning for me or because of me?_ She’s not quite sure why her mind even asks the silly rhetoric. 

“What have I done?” he whimpers, “What have I done to your magic? What have I made you into?” 

~

Another week has passed. It’s filled with the pain in her head shifting to the front of her forehead now, and Wolkan’s constant insistence of her body now having fully regained its strength. 

“Your Grace,” he always says slowly, as if speaking to a child, “you are healed. The pain in your head is but paranoia.” 

But he doesn’t understand, _no one_ seems to for that matter. 

How can she possibly explain that the simple act of _being_ , causes her mind to twist like a rope, tightening and twirling till the strained strings are but mere seconds away from tearing each other apart. How can she confess that every step taken in her direction makes her body prickle with tension and a heightened sense of alertness, of fear. How can she cry out the dispirit and dread poisoning her will, not just to reign but to even live. 

“The pain…it’s always there. Like it’s eating away my mind, chewing every last thought I have before I can fully create it.” Dany harshly bites her lip, wondering just how many times she must describe the affliction for him to understand. Though she must not let her voice quaver, even a fraction. Maester Wolkan pays even less attention when she’s emotional. 

“You have faced a terrible act of selfish greed. Of course, you’re worried, stressed,” he consoles, even taking the liberty to run a hand through her oily hair. 

Dany slaps his dry hands away before they reach her skin, aggravated. “No! This is not normal-this is not just pain, its agony,” she half-cries. “All I fucking _feel_ is agony and no one is fixing it!” The pain in her throat begins bubbling again almost as immediately as the spike of pain by her temples and she almost howls in anger. She will not cry, she will _not_. “I have suffered from headaches before, and this is not it. Why will you not understand?” 

“Your Grace,” Maester Wolkan stutters helplessly, shaken by her outburst, “I don’t know what else to do. We have given you all sorts of medicinal supplements to cure headaches-all of them! Every day, I bring in the strongest ones known to Westeros and yet you respond with the same answer.” 

Dany’s face heats, scowling. “Oh, so you believe this is a farce?” 

Wolkan pales, even more a nervous wreck than minutes ago. “Your Grace that’s absurd, of course-”

Dany lifts herself up, shoving right into his face. She’s had enough of treading water with this man. “Fix this.” She states, tone deadly, yet vivacious in a way it hasn’t in weeks. “I’ve had enough.”

It seems that in her absence of strength he’s taken quite a bit of liberties, for he creeps into her space suddenly, making her recoil. Quietly, he asks, “Is this because of the babe? I have heard that women tend to become hysterical when they believe-” 

Never before has Dany yearned for her hand to be golden like Jaime’s, for the sting of her slap would be insurmountable on Wolkan’s wretched, old, and round face. 

Low like the rumble of a volcano, she speaks. “Never, mention it again. Ever,” she commands. It’s dangerous, like a dragon silently waiting to snap its prey into its grand jaw. She glares at him for a moment, worry suddenly creeping in. “Have you told anyone?” she masks her fear with a harsh bark. 

Wolkan holds his red cheek, “No-no, Your Grace. Missandei instructed me not to until-”

“Good,” she clips, the yearning for her dear friend not subsiding, making her voice watery. 

_I yearn more than I do anymore._ “There will be not an ‘until’ anyways, so keep this information to yourself. Alright?”

Wolkan barely remembers to nod before he’s stumbling out of the room, the whispered curses under his breath not lost to Dany’s ears. 

~

There’s not much feeling in her heart when Tyrion storms into her room to deliver the news, face lit up with genuine pride after what feels like decades. He barely registers Mitthi when he excitedly grabs her hand. 

“What?” she frowns, almost annoyed at someone having so much energy. 

Tyrion grins. It’s one of his smug ones, the one he oh so _loves_ to use when his judgement turns out to be correct. “We found him.” 

Dany’s stomach drops, suddenly much more interested. “Found who?” she asks, already knowing the answer by the vivacity of his features.

He takes out a hefty stack of papers that look like they’d been furiously written upon within the last hour, pointing at a certain name. “Gawen Glover.” 

The name sounds familiar, and when she strains her mind enough to fan through a series of faces she spots him. Dany waits patiently to reply, the sinking feeling already crushing her. He had curly hair, she remembers from a feast moons ago, so…young, perhaps even Arya’s age. “He’s the one who poisoned me?”

Tyrion nods quickly. “Some of the men Davos hired to investigate found a bottle of Tears of Lys under the bed of a whore in Winter town, and after some hours of instigating she slipped out Gawen’s name. Almost immediately we dragged him out of his rather dreadful looking castle and have now arrested him here. Jorah was supposed to inform you-” he pauses hesitantly, “but he had to finish yet another task.” 

Dany’s brows furrow, barely digesting that last sentence. “I thought this was the doing of that girl?” Is he implying that _two_ adolescents came up with this plan? 

“The girl?” he pauses, “Oh the _girl_. Yes-yes we’re not really sure how she fits into the equation-but she doesn’t matter. Right now, our priority is Gawen.”

“But she’s the one who gave me the drink though, not him?” Is she perhaps missing something? 

Tyrion sighs, impatient. “You are right that the girl handed it over to you-but she’s probably just some hired assassin! The Gods know there are thousands of them in Westeros, Your Grace. What we need to focus on right now is who hired her, and Gawen is the only possible answer to it.” 

Still the information doesn’t settle well in Daenerys. If Gawen hired the little girl, why would he instruct her to hide the poison with the woman he was bedding? It isn’t adding up for her, and she shows it with her frown. 

“I’m positive,” Tyrion murmurs at her look, nodding vehemently. “He is the man we’re looking for.” 

She wants to instigate the situation some more, but Tyrion’s stubborn nature makes her recoil at the thought. Dany sighs, lips pursed. “Alright.” 

“Alright,” he sighs with relief. 

Something else stands out in his story. Though Daenerys isn’t sure if her confusion is rooted in her own deliriousness or the general misinformation. 

“House Glover is quite a way from here, right? It would take days- perhaps even weeks to arrive in Winterfell. How have the soldiers already …” but she suddenly trails off. Tyrion’s now stiffened body is enough of an answer. 

Dany’s entire body flushes as she dreadfully begins to understand what just happened right under her nose. “You’ve known,” she whispers, humiliated, “you’ve known for some time and yet you-you hid it from me?” 

Tyrion shakes his head vehemently. “Daenerys it is _nothing_ like that-”

But it already twists into her wounded pride. “So, you did,” she spits. 

“Technically yes- but I vow that it was only because I wanted to protect you from-”

“I do not need yours, or anyone’s protection, Tyrion!”

“Of course, of course Your Grace! I just wanted to give you the news when there was full confirmation of the guilty man. It would’ve been futile bringing you false hope.” 

Dany scoffs incredulously, rising against the headboard. Gods, does he now know her at all? “You made _me_ the last person to learn the knowledge of _my_ possible murderer? I am your Queen, Lord Hand.” She’s so angry, brimming with furious incredulity. It’s built upon such uncommon grounds that it’s leaving her shaky and dazed, wondering just how much she’s missed while being drunk on fever dreams. The hurt comes soon after, singing her wounds with acid. 

“The news should come to me first, and then others,” comes out weakly. It feels like she’s been caged in a clear glass box, watching dreadfully as people speak for her, assume for her, make decisions for her.

Dany curls her fist into the wispy sheets, the strings digging into her skin with the utter strength. “Did you execute him already?” 

Now Tyrion scoffs, sputtering, “Of course we did not, Your Grace! I wouldn’t presume such a thing ever.” He’s speaking as if she should know he only crosses boundary till execution is in the conversation. Dany rolls her eyes, the pain from the action doing little to subside her ferocity. 

“Actually, the reason I came here was for this purpose. I wanted your permission to continue on with the trial in your…absence. With a jury we have voted to punish the man by death on all accounts, as he is unwilling to provide any evidence for his innocence.” 

“Well how _thoughtful_ of you,” Dany seethes, almost wishing she could burn his damn scrolls with her eyes. “You went through the entire trial without my knowledge and then chose to curtesy me into knowing the fate of my own assassin!”

“Daenerys,” he stutters, confused and impatient, the blues of his eye so bright and lively, “I don’t know how many times I must repeat this, but my intent was not ill-willed. We-we were only wishing to spare you the tension and burden of a full trial through these tried times-”

“We,” Dany tilts her head, frowning, “who is we, in this?” 

Tyrion gulps, eyes wandering everywhere but his Queen’s. “Me, Jon, Davos, Jorah, Missandei…there are more.” 

Though the mention of Jon and Davos are unsurprising, the last two contorts a knife in her gut, her breath hitching. “Missandei…Jorah…” she trails off, gaping, silenced. _They knew._

Missandei never hides things from her, and neither does Dany to Missandei. It’s like a silent vow they’d professed to each other since those early days in Astapor. The simple notion of her avoiding Dany just to conceal this truth feels like a betrayal almost, like the foundation of them has begun crackling, tumbling off in chunks. 

She purses her lips, chuckling with a grate. “I guess it evens the score,” she murmurs to a pale Tyrion, “I lied to her, now she lies to me.” 

Tyrion lets out a groan, and before he can so much as justify anything else she sighs, tired, too defeated to let this curdle any longer. 

_Missandei’s hand snatching into hers, pulling her deeper into the center of the pit, the gold of the Harpy’s masks casting blinding beams everywhere. I am here, she screams with her wide eyes, chin high even when her hand is trembling in Dany’s-_

“Where do I sign?” she whispers, gasping out of the vivid image desperately. Tyrion is clearly taken by surprise. 

They both expect her to at least command to face the man once, look him in the eyes and ask him why he’d attempt such an act. But then Dany remembers seeing his face, young, so much confusion in his eyes as he desperately tries to rummage through the chaos of a formal meeting, a feast with the monarchs. She remembers smiling to herself, recalling the exact look painting her face many moons ago when she was but a pawn for people older than her; dazed, dizzy with the confusion of politics and strategy of the wicked.

She wants to keep that look as her lasting memory of the young man. Would rather not digest the utter volatile look he will form at the sight of her as he’s chained. It will make her think, make her realize that she somehow construed so much hatred in someone so young that he was compelled to throw his own life away just to eliminate hers. 

_How did I go from Mhysa, to this? A hindrance, a stain blotting the honour of the North._

No, she’d rather not face that ugly reality, let it ink on her skin for days onwards. 

Tyrion attempts to coerce her into speaking through the documentation, mentioning how protective and furious the Dothrakis were after hearing that they weren’t going to be able to look the man in the eyes that endeavored to hurt their _Khaleesi_. It does little lifting to her quashed heart, though she does let out a hum of recognition, reminding herself to write a gratuitous letter for her men. 

Dany hands the papers back to her Hand, already wishing he’d leave and let her wallow in her affixed mourning. He almost does- letting her let out a strained breath- but she seems to forget who her Hand is, his feet backtracking from the door he’s near. 

A mixture of words seems to want to spill out of his mouth all at once, but he bites his lip quickly. A hand rests upon hers, just like it has many times before he makes another vow to her. 

“Soon this will be gone, Daenerys,” his face is lined so seriously that it seems like another person is in front of her. “And all we want- all _I_ want- is for people to not remember this, to not have this image as the first reaction to your name. They shouldn’t look at the Dragon Queen and emote pity, like witnessing some broken swan. They should look at you and feel safety, power, and the resilience that is Daenerys Stormborn.” 

_She feels the calloused hands graze her skin as she walks, heart so filled with grief and joy she can’t really breathe. The little ones have little palms that should be plump but aren’t, they imprint on her blue dress like a vow, a vow she is determined to uphold till she dies._

_Mhysa, they cry, Mhysa._

_Mhysa, Dany cries with them, I will be their Mhysa-_

Tyrion’s looking at her so genuinely and fiercely that all she can do is swallow, nodding. Her eyes beg her to sleep again, screaming to become one shape. “Today, the maids and servants will whisper about this. But then when the sun rises tomorrow they’ll have something else to chatter about as they always have.” 

“Words are wind, My Queen,” he pats her hand, smiling, “this will blow into the dust too.” 

~

He comes back the next day to inform her of the deed being done, and Dany wonders if she should be feeling relieved. The halls are safe once again, and her counsel can breathe a little easier. 

All that truly sits within her at the sentence is heaviness…like there’s a frosted block of ice sitting right on top of her heart, slowly snatching the heat beating within its core. 

Had Jon done the Queen’s Justice? Or perhaps the castle’s executioner had the job of cutting the young man’s head right off his body. She wonders how it would feel watching it, seeing someone so poisoned in his adolescents contemplating his death. 

How would it feel watching Drogon’s inferno ashen his bones? 

It makes her remember Mossador. His big, brown eyes looking up at her, helpless and pleading with his gentle voice. _Mhysa. Mhysa, kostilus._

What if Gawen had carried the same intent as her young Mossador? Believing that killing her would protect the family that seethes at the sight of her? Foolish yes, absolutely reckless- but who isn’t at his age. 

Wasn’t he doing what every child tries doing for his family, what Sansa is attempting to do for hers? What every Northern Lord is fighting for? Protect. To sustain the ones we love, eliminate the ones who wish to disease it. 

Dany wouldn’t know that basic instinct, really. Never truly had to. 

So, what right does she have punishing a young man for such? Someone who must’ve overhead his relatives spewing vile stories about her and had his basic tendencies take over? 

Empathy. She remembers Jon whispering that word to her, believing her essence brimmed with it. Has she lost that too? 

~

She thinks she hears Jon again one more night, the softness of his hushed voice barely able to penetrate her sleeping-from. Dany wants to question him, yell at him, to make him go away too. 

But she’s tired. She lets the sweet dreams drown her. 

~

Maybe he’s in denial, Maester Wolkan, frustrated with not being able to solve his patient’s problems, especially her being the Queen. 

Wolkan sends Mitthi to her room with even more concoctions, each more gnarly and wretched than the previous. It feels like every hour Dany’s being glugged down with another chalky substance that only subsides the thrumming for a few precious moments, right before the rope twists severely again. Dany doesn’t even have the will to even drink her normal medicine, the mere thought of swallowing another substance too volatile. 

_Perhaps it is just me_ , Dany frowns, staring at the wood of her window that is now hardened like iron from the frost penetrating inside. Unconsciously, her vision wavers down at her baby blue shift, the swell she’d taken great efforts to ignore barely visible to the naked eye. _Or it’s the monster growing in my womb._

Then again it may just be paranoia, not wanting to step out where yet another young, brainwashed, and ungrateful Northerner could slit her throat within a blink of the eye. 

Either way, the concoction that Wolkan managed to make in her stomach keeps her awake, even letting her be a bit more aware. Sitting there in silence, the only thing to keep track of being the thrum of her head and the drip drops of melting ice on the wooden panel makes her mind wander in thought. 

What contemplation did she usually occupy her days with? Before, it had been of survival, through Viserys’s tyranny, then a marriage with Drogo, then the Red Waste. Her life was built around striving through strife. 

There’s no rhyme or reason when Dany suddenly remembers the Dothraki. Not really the ones who are most likely guarding the door, but the few dozen that had carried their corpse-like bodies across the red-sanded wasteland for her, who’d let their feet scald across the smoking ground till the skin peeled and crusted. The first people to believe her. 

Maybe the Northerners gave up on her-or maybe never truly kept faith with her- but aren’t there more to still protect? To care and make sure of their safety? 

A whisper of _Mhysa_ creeps into her brain and Dany shivers, worried. What will happen to the people who kept their unwavering faith in her, in her dreams for the world? And the ones who came along the way. 

Who will take care of the Dothraki and Unsullied in her absence, who will care for them, as a mother should? Dany had not been able to uphold the elections she’d wished for, so that the Dothraki had a representative in their council meetings as the poison hindered her plans. If she’s not even there to make sure that their voices are heard, will they die under the ignorance of others? 

If not for anyone else, she has to live for them, for the people who do care. The ones who held her hand through the worst of conditions throughout Essos. 

_Yes, I am needed. I am a Mhysa, a protector, I am._

Dany lifts her head high, calling out for Mitthi. She will leave this stench-ridden room today, even if it takes everything out of her. 

“I want to leave, Mitthi,” Dany states defiantly, her unused and lazed arms trembling to hold her up as her friend walks in. 

Mitthi freezes, worried and hesitant. “ _Khaleesi_ ,” she shakes her head nervously, “I don’t think that is a good idea. You seem still ... let me at least get the Maester-”

The thought of having Wolkan inspect her body for the millionth time is more than enough of a motivator for Dany to lift herself even higher on her arms, the look painted on her face making Mitthi clamp her mouth shut. 

She seems to want to say something, most likely to run and get the Maester, but Dany points to her warm but light woolen dress that has been abandoned for far too long.

Quickly Mitthi scrambles to retrieve clothes and a brush, huffing by the time she’s able to help Dany weakly peal her sickly clothes off and wear the crisp, fresh ones. “Where to, _Khaleesi_?”

For the first time in a while she has the energy to be bored, to actually want to _do_ something. It makes Dany looks down at the itinerary Tyrion had given her the previous afternoon, a wide smile on her face. “A council meeting.” 

~

Her time of dealing with greedy men had equipped Dany to a certain tolerance of the gaze; the lustful, the hatred-filled, the curious, and the downright ungodly ones. She prided herself on the indifference she felt when such eyes landed upon her. 

Yet when she steps out of her room after what feels like years, she thinks perhaps that quality of hers died along with most of her sanity. Qhono is but a meter behind her, as if a wall glued to her side. 

Mitthi holds her hand tightly as well, hiding it under the large shawl that swallows Dany as instructed. In retrospect it's perhaps the only smart aspect of her decision to leave the room, as a million different things hit her at once. 

The cold is first. Being stuck in one generously-sized room for so long tends to come with the perk of it always being heated. It makes its way under her thick blanket and kisses her skin till it pricks with goosebumps, the shivers already beginning in her shoulders. 

The second is the simple act of walking itself. Though she had begun walking again in her chambers to prevent atrophy in her legs, it tended to be less than twenty steps, her head dizzy and throat bubbling with bile by then. Dany has to clip her mouth shut tightly, for the fear of spilling the loaf of bread she had eaten in the morning onto the cold floors too mortifying. 

The third being the stares. At first she doesn’t take notice, her attention solely on keeping her feet going one in front of the other and Mitthi’s calming words. But one quick sideways glance at a frozen maid, and it’s suddenly all she can see.

Most of the stares are equipped with quite loud whispers, everyone seeming to slow their tracks as they catch a glance at her, only to come back minutes later with a larger heard whispering common folks. She scans over the crowd, wondering how many of them quite possibly know of who attempted her murder. 

It makes Dany bite her tongue, so close is she to snapping out an order to mind their own business. But the idea of them witnessing the sickly queen being as well cruel seems all too idiotic even for her weakened mind. 

As they turn into the last hallway-to Dany’s utter relief- she thinks she’s heard about all the worse things she could think of herself. 

_Look at her poor hair._

_I heard a Dothraki poisoned her._

_She looks even more sickly than I thought._

_The Targaryen madness has diseased her too._

_Poor thing._

She barely has time to digest them before Mitthi stops in front of the door, a mixture of pride and worry creeping on her young face. Dany can hear the muffled chattering of familiar voices, each making her heart beat faster. “Are you sure you want to do this, _Khaleesi_?” 

Dany swallows thickly, squeezing her trembling fingers tightly into her friends. “Maybe not, but I have to. A Queen must do what Queens do,” she says defiantly, voice more confident than her heart is truly feeling. _I am needed. My children need me._

Mitthi doesn’t seem quite convinced, but she carefully opens the door anyways. Dany takes in a deep breath, willing the pull in her temples to sleep just for one moment. _Alert. You need to be alert._

“Tyrion, we can’t keep pretending what-”

It seems as if when the door is pulled open, the air within each person in the room has been sucked out almost immediately. Each pair of eyes bursting out of their sockets as they gawk at the sight of her. 

Someone probably says something, but Dany’s heart is pounding so loudly in her chest that she can’t quite hear. It’s the type of nerves she only felt once, when Drogo’s brown eyes had peered down at her from his great stallion the first time they met, the power of him making her stay still like a statue as he inspected her; it’s a mixture of utter powerlessness and petrifying self-consciousness. 

Dany purses her lips, willing her breath to slow and she inhales, exhales from her nose, carefully not catching anyone’s gaze as she desperately looks for those comforting honeyed-eyes. 

When she meets Missandei’s eyes, her throat tightens, the look on her sister’s face not expected. “Your Grace,” she whispers, pale faced. 

It’s almost a reckless amount of a wait before Dany’s heart sinks, making sense of the expressions written on her dear friend’s face- the wide and ashen eyes, the trembling lips. 

She feels even colder than before, the sudden sense of confidence she’d surmised pummelling because of a two-second look. 

Unconsciously Dany looks down at her attire, wondering if perhaps she’d haphazardly pulled on her dress. She had changed for this, even braided her hair to look presentable, so what is the problem? 

Missandei quickly walks around the table, barely moving her frozen gaze as she does. She jogs up to a proper distance in front of Dany, barely being able to speak through her throat bobbing rapidly. 

“You look well,” she blurts quickly. Dany flinches. It’s so aberrant and unlike Missandei, and so much like the cursory words of the rich Meereenese merchants who spoke to her with lustrous greed coating their every word. 

Pulling her lips up into a strange smile, Missandei looks Dany up and down right before meeting Mitthi’s form. “Did you make her come here?” there’s a strain to her smile, an attempt at light words.

Mitthi’s brown eyes widen fearfully. “No Missandei, _Khaleesi_ -”

“I told her to bring me here,” Dany quickly reassures, placing a hand on Mitthi’s shoulder. She clears her throat, reminding herself to lift her dipping head, “I wanted to be here.” 

She keeps Missandei’s gaze, asking silently, _am I welcomed here anymore?_

Missandei nods her head carefully, as if speaking to a frightened deer. “Of course,” she whispers, voice faint. “Come on,” she tugs Dany’s hand into her own. 

The feeling of Missandei’s soft hand is so tranquil and achingly comforting that Dany almost cries again. The warmth of her touch is savoured like a starved man contacting food, all disdain suddenly dissolved. 

Solace only temporarily makes her forget that everyone in the room is still staring at her, frozen like a people in painting in the middle of movements. 

The moment she begins to walk around the table, it’s quite obvious how uncomfortable everyone seems, shifting in their chairs, squirming as they meet each other’s glances before the sickly Queen. 

But Dany takes the time to meet every single pair of eyes, challenging them each to give her a pitiful look for even a second. She squeezes Missandei’s limp hand, taking what little strength she can get in the moment. It takes about five heads before the inevitable happens and she meets Jon’s brown orbs. 

Under the harsh scrutiny of daylight, he seems to be even worse-off than last time, Dany observes quite harshly. The strong line of his jaw barely hides the hollow cheeks hiding under his gruff beard, eyes droopy with blue-purple bags, and hair barely kept under the leather band. The sight makes her sad, like witnessing a beautiful flower wilting under the cruel frigidity of winter.

She imagined her heart would be racing by now, vivacious with the need to scream at his stupidity. Holler out how his nobility almost destroyed everything, and that sweet words of sadness and regret will solve nothing. 

…. And all her limp heart does is flutter, clenching as it takes in the familiar face, throat suddenly dry. 

What would he do if she confessed of being awake that night? Dany doesn’t think she would be able to stomach the look of shame; the words having been so raw and confessional.

Perhaps she should’ve taken some of her medicine after all. 

“Your Grace,” people nod across the table, some more reluctant than others in her presence. It forces Dany to peel her attention to the end of the table where Tyrion is sat with a jug of Dorne’s finest and more than a dozen haphazardly opened scrolls. He looks shaken, a worried look etched into the deep stress lines on his forehead as he takes her in, as if not quite believing he’s looking at a person. 

_It’s me,_ she almost screams, _why are you looking at me like this?_

After a minute he seems to realize that he is staring, eyes blinking away. “What brings you here?” 

Dany’s smile dampens. She was expecting at least some of the folks to show delight at her finally attending a meeting, but all she takes in from observing her Hand, Arya, Sansa, and everyone else is perhaps the most irritating emotion: worry. It makes her feel insecure, as if she’s a toddler who’s stumbled into the wrong room.

Dany inhales sharply, the anger so quick to bubble within as she scowls not just at Tyrion but all their sullen looks. “I’m attending a meeting,” she clips, snapping her gaze back to her Hand harshly, “perhaps you forgot I can still do that, Lord Tyrion.” It’s unfair for her to direct it towards him, but out of everyone he’s who she feels the most confident being angry with. 

“Of course not,” he quickly utters, head cocked back. “It’s just that it’s been quite…” he trails off, too cautious of her facial expressions to continue. 

She draws in a strained breath. Not just because she can’t bark at literally every single thing coming out of Tyrion’ mouth, but as well because that damn rope in her brain will scald with heat at how tightly it’ll wind up if she lets her anger fester. 

“I’m aware it has been a while,” she decides to hiss, taking the seat Missandei offers graciously, shuffling in the splintered chair to get comfortable with her aching legs. 

When she looks up, it’s as if she’s all the way back in the hallway, all breathes held and all heads tilted to watch her whilst she brings her hands forward, both to stop their shaking and to as well have something to fidget with. She almost takes a look behind her, wondering if perhaps there’s something else they’re gouging their eyes so oddly at. Dany clears her throat, nodding at Jorah and Missandei before meeting Tyrion’s eyes. 

“Carry on,” she motions lightly, all eyes seeming to suddenly wander off as if caught.

Tyrion quickly drops the half-crumpled paper preoccupying his hand, eyes darting between her steely gaze and a new scroll as he reads off the words written. 

Clearing his throat at the tense looks around him, Tyrion reads:

_With the gracious support of Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, and persistent strength of my brother, I have succeeded in seizing the Iron Islands from my Uncle Euron as he busies himself in the frivolities of King’s Landing. To the wench on the Iron Throne who preoccupied my dear Uncle long enough for him to forget the island he stole, I have shipped one load of our finest rotten trout near her humble docks, as a gesture of good will_. 

_As well to acknowledge the tireless support and loyalty of the great Dragon Queen I have sent two shipments of our greatest clams, salmon, and fresh trout to White Harbour. Though supplying food is not enough of a thank you for her selfless act, I do hope it will provide the North with some much-needed altercations to their quite foul meals._

_As I assume her Hand-the brat imp-will be reading this out loud, I hope he can confirm that I can be of service to Her Grace in her times of coming strife as much, or more than she was for me. If Her Grace needs even a single man to help fight her war, write me a letter, tell me of the place, and I will arrive with ten of my best men._

_Best regards,_

_Yara Greyjoy, Lady of the Iron Islands and Lady Reaper of Pyke._

_A win._ It feels like the first time in forever that Dany’s heart lifts for once and she actually smiles- actually _grins_. She lifts her chin proudly, waiting as Tyrion sends the letter down the table in her direction. Her temples lessen to a dull throb by the time she takes the paper from Missandei, her vision clearing if only slightly, letting her breathe easier. 

If anyone deserves to be succeeding through these trying times, it is Yara, and it fills Dany with joy at the prospect that she is winning. Someone is winning for once. 

“Well this is great news,” Dany murmurs, lazily skimming over Yara’s quite articulate writing before looking up excitedly. “With Yara taking control of the Iron Islands we have control over all lands past the Red Fork, right?” 

Tyrion tilts his head, wincing. “Not…quite.” 

“Well why not?” Dany asks, frowning. 

He watches her as if it’s obvious, realizing after a minute of waiting she has no clue. “Oh. Well…the Night King has control over everything North of Last Hearth.” 

“Oh.” She had completely forgotten about the threat in the North for a good few minutes. “M-my apologies,” Dany flushes, embarrassed. Maybe she’s begun to lose her memory as well. 

“No-no!” Tyrion waves a hand, chuckling with fraught, “we all forget things Your Grace, it’s nothing-nothing!” 

Is she hallucinating, or has his voice risen a pitch or two? Dany brows furrow, eyeing the statue-like people in the room before scowling, the sting all too harsh when it dawns upon her. “I’m not going to become hysterical, Tyrion,” she says through her gritted teeth. She’s getting better, didn’t Wolkan tell them? 

And of _course_ , he pails, even more frantic as he desperately stutters, “No, Your Grace, I was just reassuring you that it happens to the best-”

She drags her chair to further lean her arms on the table, knuckles white. “I am not a piece of glass, Tyrion, I am your Queen. So, I kindly request that you stop staring at me like a withered bird and do your duty.” 

Even before the words so much as leave her mouth, she wishes she had bitten her tongue to stop them. She sees Tyrion cower in hurt, barely able to say a word. 

“He was saying it for your betterment, Your Grace.” Dany hitches at the sound of his voice, surprised to hear Jon speak even a word today. He continues defiantly, actually meeting her eyes with a hint of anger, hands tightly clasped together. “We all want what’s best for you.” 

Dany winces at the severity, cursing under her breath as she lowers her gaze. Gods, when had she become such a cruel woman? 

“My apologies,” she murmurs, unconsciously thumbing across her now beating temple. Flushing, she feels even less in her domain. Desperately she wishes to change the harsh look in everyone’s eyes, saying lightly, “how have the soldiers been fairing? Ser Davos informed me of the lessening feuds within the last week.” Lessening wasn’t the word he truly used, but Dany would rather not repeat his grim worries. 

“That they are,” Tyrion’s voice is still low, lips pulled into a strict line. “Lady Arya has been bonding with the men, helping them cooperate with one another.” 

“Really?” Dany glances at Arya, surprised. She’s not much of a peacemaker for all Dany remembers. 

Arya momentarily pauses from her peeling of some chipped wood, realizing they’re speaking about her. It bothers Dany that she seems so distant, not just in the conversation, but as well towards her in general; the amount of time Arya coming into her chambers having become scarce to none. Some time ago, she would have been sitting right beside Dany, ready as ever to add in anything needed with great enthusiasm.

“Oh,” Arya blinks between Dany and Tyrion, quietly mumbling, “yes I guess I have.” After a beat of hesitation, she continues. “Once you get their heads out of their asses, they’re quite kind to one another.” She directs a finger across the table before coyly smiling, “Brienne did most of the work in all honestly.” 

The two most quiet of the bunch tense, Brienne and Jaime, catch each other’s eyes. Dany had almost forgotten they’d been in the room as their silence and statue-like demeanor had barely caught her attention. “It’s nothing really,” Brienne vehemently retracts. 

“Oh, she’s just being humble,” Jaimie responds almost immediately, scarred-face softening at a pause Brienne’s profile. “Brienne always does the unthinkable.” 

He seems to register his own gawking, blinking away, meeting Dany’s. “The ways she’s made the men bond and erase their differences…even I thought was impossible seeing how bullheaded they’ve been, Your Grace. She’s a great commander, and leader.” 

“That she is,” Sansa smiles proudly. Her ash-coloured velvety gown crinkles as she leans forward, dimples indenting in her pale and freckled cheeks. 

There’s a quick look that follows between her, Arya, and Brienne. It’s so fast that if in her sadness Dany hadn’t been staring, she wouldn’t have even noticed the brush. It’s teasing and comforting, so natural and at ease. 

For some reason it overcomes Dany with grief, a spark of jealousy stirring in the mixture. It’s foolish- childish- but she had selfishly assumed that her bond with Arya paled in comparison with any of her others, seeing how Arya puts such a fierce mien in front of most. But now…it seems that in Dany’s absence, Arya had replaced her, forgotten her within a blink an eye. 

The notion isn’t helping her frail will to continue the meeting to the end. In fact, it splinters it even more, chipping away to the sore skin of her throbbing heart. 

Davos take the silent conversation as an opportunity, quickly adding, “Some of the Northerners and Dothrakis are even becoming acquaintances, Your Grace. Sharing bonfires and food- even playing games! It’s truly a sight to see.” 

He’s so pleased that Dany compels herself to smile back, nodding. At least someone in the room seems minutely aware of her presence.

~

The rocky meeting continues till Tyrion has finished going through every last scroll, most taking into account the imports and (very little) exports to and from Winterfell and White Harbour. The stockage of grains and along with that, some scrolls mention how King’s Landing is fairing. Apparently Cersei sent bounty hunters up North, Varys’s little birds inform. He says in the scrolls that one of his birds caught sight of a sellsword slipping under the grand gates of King’s Landing, the large weapon in his hand not hard to miss. 

Since their arrival up to Winterfell it seems like the only person handing them information about the South is Varys through his dizzying array of networks throughout the lands. It puts Dany on edge, unsettling her gut. 

Out of all her advisors, she’s never been more conflicted with any than the Old Spider. Though he is useful, quick-witted with his thinking, there’s a darkness in him that she just can’t put a finger on. 

Do the resources he provides out-way the water-like strength of his loyalty towards people? Just two years ago, he had willingly become an advisor for the cruel Joffrey Lannister, imparting the same or further intelligence of the political news of Westeros and Essos to the brat. Ser Barristan did not have to inform her of much before she understood what grave danger the citizens were in under the spoiled Lannister offspring, the torture, the ruthless cruelty, and apathy all too familiar to her. 

She’s also seen the way Varys cautiously takes in her face when she seems to be not looking. As if he’s trying hard to decipher what is different in her face from her Father’s. 

Tyrion and Jaime are taken by surprise by the news, her Hand’s blue eyes widening as they leave the fancy scroll towards his brother. There’s a silent conversation between the Lannister children, though it seems to Dany that all siblings have this skill; just not her. 

Jon saves them graciously, voice husky from disuse. “If it is alright with Her Grace and Lady Sansa, I believe holding Jaime in a chamber within Winterfell will aid us in heightening security for him, and consequently everyone else within the castle.” 

Dany’s brow arches, surprised. Last of what she knew, the Starks couldn’t look a minute at the golden son of Tywin Lannister without feeling the urge to curl their hands around his throat. She meets Sansa’s eyes, the reluctance in her blue orbs clear as day. 

“I think that is a great idea, My Lord,” Dany murmurs at Jon, not wincing Sansa’s curling lip in her peripheral vision. She knows Sansa despises the man because of his ties to cruel lions of Casterly Rock; however, it seems that there’s anger a whole lot more complicated in her fiery gaze, something Jon must’ve not disclosed to her on their boat ride here. 

Sansa looks between a nervous Jaime and Tyrion, the thick red raid of her brows furrowing deeply as she speaks, sighing. 

“I agree,” she says briefly, clearly disinclined. “We need to keep everyone safe in these dire times where our humanity is being tested. It does help that Lord Jaime has been valorized on many occasions by Brienne, and I trust her judgement.” It’s to their relief, the _thank you_ worded to her from Tyrion accompanying a small smile. 

They finished the meeting with the last half-an-hour being dedicated to anything anyone wanted to bring up. Davos mentions a new sighting of the Red Woman at Dragonstone once again, though he quickly states that she has not tried trespassing into the castle as of recent scrolls; the crease on his forehead only deepens as he speaks. 

“Jon?” Davos murmurs when the room goes silent again, nudging his King’s elbow expectedly. 

Jon stiffens. “What was that, Ser Davos?” 

“Do you have anything to say,” the chastising words are whistled through his teeth. 

Jon frowns, pausing for a moment, taking in Davos when it dawns upon him. His curled fists tighten till his knuckles are the colour of snow. “No,” he spits out immediately, lip curling over his teeth. “No, I have nothing to suggest, or say.” 

“Nothing?” Dany has never seen Davos appear so shrill; he’s staring at Jon. Dany soon realizes that whatever is angering both of them simultaneously- but for opposite reasons- has happened before. 

“Okay-” Jon jumps out of his chair, huffing, scrapping its legs harshly against the floor, “I’m leaving. This is-this is getting ridiculous and I don’t-”

But before he can do much as open the heavy door Davos suddenly meets her eyes, petrified and angry all at once as he blurts out, “Jon should be trained.”

Dany cocks her head. Jon is perhaps the most skilled fighters in Westeros other than Arya and Grey Worm as far as she knows, so why… “Ser Davos,” she chuckles nervously, “I don’t think Lord Snow needs my permission to train with his s-”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” He inhales sharply. “But the context of my words was not in relation to swords, but-but dragons.” 

Without fully taking it in, Dany’s brows jump into her hairline, the shock of his words stiffening her bones. Her eyes unintentionally search for Jon’s. And when she does find them, they’re filled with that same dreaded look in Missandei’s: alarm. 

He shakes his head slowly, opening his mouth, “I-” but is intervened by Davos once again.

“Your Grace,” he sighs, angling in his seat towards her, “we need to know what the Night King is doing, what his army is currently held up at. Every man we have sent though, out of these gates anywhere near Long Lake has ceased to return in the last weeks. The only way to somehow gain perspective on his current activities is from above- preferably on the back of a gigantic dragon- where we can maneuver through these flash blizzards without dying.”

Jon winces through his every word, barely able to meet her eyes by the end in fear.

What is Dany supposed to say? _Yes, Jon, almost a stranger to my sons, can somehow train to ride their backs in a span of a few days? Yes, I will trust someone else to not take advantage of my sons?_

Dany clears her throat, overwhelmed and fumbling at the heavy stares of everyone. “Your candor words are…thoroughly refreshing, Ser Davos.” He nods, seeming to be ready as ever for anything she can possibly say. 

She licks her dry lips, slow and steady so her words aren’t deemed harsh. “You must understand that the relationship between a dragon and their rider is not remotely anything like a man and a horse. It-it’s a bond, and string that connects your heart with theirs, makes your minds one as you ride together. You can’t force a sacred link like that-remotely even- or you will be tossed off the dragon’s hide like a pebble.” 

Davos narrows his eyes, hesitantly looking back at Jon once. “But…will the connection of blood not…” he trails off slowly, everyone almost immediately feeling the strung arrow-like tension suddenly brewing in the room. Dany’s throat tightens.

So, everyone does know now. Common fact, like the seasons changing or the sun dipping under the horizon. 

She can’t help but feel a sting. It’s strange, like eating something rancid with full knowledge beforehand. Of course, word would spread, and she’d be foolish to presume otherwise. There was no chance of the story being hidden between a small group of individuals when all of said individuals are monarchs and politicians by profession. But it still feels odd to hear it from another, like a sacred text has been published to the world. 

Jon’s face is stony, lips tightly pursed as he burns holes into the back of Davos’s head, eyes faltering. He doesn’t oppose him, neither defends him. 

Tyrion is the one to speak up, intrigued. “Your Grace, my apologies for Ser Davos’s bluntness, though I do believe that he has a point. Because of your-”

“No,” Jon snaps, rushing to slam his hand onto the table, looking right into her eyes, “I do not wish to participate in this, with all respect to you Davos. I-I am not a dragon rider, nor I think I ever should be.” 

“Why?” Dany blurts quietly, surprising everyone including herself. Is she not against the notion herself?

Jon blinks, confused. “Your Grace, they are your children. And no one has any right to dictate any decisions regarding them without your full consent and willingness,” he glares at Davos and Tyrion, “no matter what anyone concludes.”

They all look back at her, waiting. She looks towards Jorah, then Missandei, then inhales. 

“I don’t think that will be a problem, my Lord Hand and Ser Davos, because I will go scout on Drogon myself.” 

Everyone in the room booms with hushed murmurs, stunned. Tyrion scoffs. “Daenerys, this-this is absurd! You are in absolutely no condition to be partaking in such risky behaviors.” 

“I think I know what is right and wrong for me, Lord Hand. Thank you very much,” she clips instantly, annoyed. She will lose all her sanity if she hears even one more person chastise her with caution and worry. 

“Maester Wolkan deems me perfectly fit,” she states defiantly, begging her head to slow down its pulsing, “and I can walk now. I can eat and I can think, what more do I need?” 

“You-” Tyrion bites his mouth, clenching his jaw angrily. He slows his strained breath, almost reluctant as he seethes. “Daenerys, you were bed-ridden for weeks. You-you refused to stay awake for more than a few hours-”

“That was because my migraines were at their peak,” she hisses through her staggering shock. 

He narrows his eyes incredulously. “You said to me two days ago that your head is still in pain.” 

“Perhaps,” she gulps, chin high, “we all have small obstacles we need to overcome.”

“ _Obstacles_ -” he slams into the back of his chair, howling. “Daenerys you are ill. _Not_ because of the poison and _not_ in your body, but because of the state of your mind. Do you understand? Do you understand what I am saying?”

It feels like a slap of metal across her cheek when he finishes spitting out the venom, the very air sucked out of her. Her entire body stones into a rigid block, heart slamming so hard against her chest that it matches the rapid pace of her festering rage, the pounding of her red, hot blood. Dragon-like. Magma, bubbling. It runs so homogeneously with the dejection fisting her heart, every single piece of her prickling with hurt. She’s finished. 

“Speak such blasphemy in my presence _ever_ again, my Lord Hand.” She pauses. Willing, desperate for her lungs to take in oxygen. Dany can’t let it drown her, she must not. “And I shall have Drogon turn you into nothing but Lannister ashes and blackened bones.”

Not a single piece of wood dares to make a sound as her haggard breath echoes in the room, and neither does a single person when she strikes the door shut behind her. 

~

It’s a mistake. 

There’s not truly a moment it suddenly emerges within her; rather, it’s a festering bubble that only bellows and curdles as she walks farther and farther from the council room. 

Anger, she realizes, takes its toll. It takes over you till its last drop is exposed in broad daylight, leaving the body limp in the aftermath, exhausted. 

In all honesty she’s not truly sure what her reason is to do this, but there’s no chance of her backtracking anyways. Might as well hurdle into the mess with her pride still lasting. 

She feels it first, of course, in her head. Like a sharp needle tunneling its way into her skull, prodding at her bruised muscles over and over. 

By the time she passes the Great Hall it’s reached her bones, solidifying her marrow into lead. It doesn’t help that she is wearing wool, wrapping her heavy body with the weight of a bear. The discomfort thankfully works as a ruse, allowing her to pretend not to hear the sound of voices echoing desperately behind her. 

When the scent of air, fresh, _outside_ air enters her nostrils, it’s reached her pounding heart. The palpitation has slowed to a groggy sludge. 

Dany recoils, hand instantly shielding her face. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the relentlessly harsh and bleached light shining off the snow, the neon spots blot her vision for a while. She’s used nothing but fire as her source of illumination for so long that it now feels like acid is drenching her raw eyes, water flooding her sight. 

Her bearing seems almost new, as if this is her first day in Winterfell. Dany can’t seem to figure out what is where-and what is _what_ for that matter. Qarth comes back into her memories suddenly. The quench crusting her throat with jagged rocks, her skin sore and red with her body’s every movement. She remembers the sights triumphing over her pain, the sight of golden statues and crisp-blue water trickling down fountains. Its similar now, though the sights are now inflicting even more injury to her wounds. 

Through her blinded vision she can see the inklings of dying trees, withered and hunched over, shivering from the cold winds whistling. Like the courtyard, the training ground is mostly empty too, only one or two people pausing in the midst of their motion to gape at her. 

_This is a mistake, a stupid, idiotic mistake_. She is going to die today, she understands, die committing the most reckless act possible. The people of Winterfell will finally cheer, her silver-hair will fan through the air till she’s crushed like twigs under the force of frosted ground. 

_At least I will die some dignity. I will die showing how wrong they are._

She takes a step forward, hesitant, the crispy snow making a _crunch_ under heavy boots till it compresses into a frosted block. The sound harmonizes with the ringing of her now red-tinted ears, crunch, crunch, crunch…

Delirious and confused she doesn’t realize she’s already managed to find the front gates. Tall, anchored with steel and strong wood. 

She looks down to find the two guards staring at a ghost, their eyes wide and bulging out of their wrinkled sockets. “Your-Your Grace,” one stutters, clumsily dropping down on one knee, the thin iron chains crinkling with movement on his chest. “How can I be of service to you.” 

_He’s afraid._ It seems like everyone is nowadays. 

“Open the gates,” she commands, squashing the feeling under her bare foot before it can grow, tilting her head towards the other who watches her suspiciously. 

“Your Grace,” the man on his knee shoots up, meeting his partners eyes, shaking his head rapidly. “The King-” his pale face flushes, “I mean the former K-I mean _Lord Snow_ , he ordered us to bar the gates to his word. He said only open the gates if someone is seeking refuge.” 

Dany’s lip curls, “Now who does Lord Snow serve?” 

He looks at her as if she’s asking a trick question. “You-You, Your Grace.”

“Yes,” she nods speaking slowly, dangerously, “so if you take orders from him, and he takes orders from me, then who’s orders must you follow?” 

The man cowers, helplessly asking his frozen friend for help. When he doesn’t receive anything he looks back, trembling and fumbling. “I guess that would be you, Your Grace.” 

“Right.” Dany stretches her lips into an acrid smile. “So…” she waits silently for him to answer, dipping her head. “Open the gates,” she snaps. 

“Yes-yes.” The first man scrambles to lug the heavy bar off the doors, his hesitation on the handle only lasting till he sees her gaze upon him once more. They groan like aching bones as they open, slamming against the castle walls before bounding off. 

The bellowing gets louder, closer. Dany panics, running, refusing to glance back. 

Grand hide-made tents litter the dirty snow across the vast open lands. One side marked with armored men, the other with people covered in furs and skins. Her men, her people. 

Her heart aches to speak with them, to hug each and every one of the brave men and women who are huddled by fires in this miserable land to fight her war. Some turn around in time to watch her rush through the crowds, yelping with joy at her sight while others bellow, furiously wanting to know what has happened to their Queen. That’s for another time though. 

She jogs past the tents, the people, the castle, everything, till silence and the songs of the wind are her only companion. The sad and gloomy sun split rays across the empty lands, doing little to melt the frost burning across her uncovered skin. She sees the tall hills, the ones Jon swung her around on as her heart burst with love, where they whispered through the cold about their dreams and hopes. She sees the trail of sleds, ones of the men who must now be blue-eyed slaves. It’s pain and misery in the core of the sight, the understanding coming of hopelessness and desolation being the ending of all those stories. 

Her body is in agony- every inhale, every step like swords slitting through her skin. It’s horrible. Almost worse than the past weeks- or the past months of misery she’s held so deep within her heart that she could almost collapse with-

Dany gasps. Freezes. 

It blooms out of nowhere. Soft, gentle like a mother’s voice. Like the warmth of arms engulfing a shivering body. 

Through the blinding unfamiliarity of the ground she feels it, through the grief-the raging frustration- the misery. She _finally_ feels it again. 

Love. It’s deep-seated. Unadulterated, bone deep. 

It fills. Fills her body like a surge of steaming, hot water. The cold is barely in existence in the moment, because they are _alive_. 

Dany bellows out a sob. 

Her sons cry with joy from afar, but she doesn’t need to hear it. She can feel it in her veins, in her heart and mind. At once she desperately tries to search between the two, petrified to feel pain, either from the outside or in on her beloveds.

_My loves_ , she coos through their thumping hearts, the wails leaving her so unabashedly, _I am here. Come to me, please. Please._

Out of nowhere she hears the boom of their paws hitting the snow, the crinkle of their wings contracting back around them. It’s so familiar, so sweet to her ears that she has to cover her trembling and wet mouth. Red and green scales flood her blurry vision before the heat engulfs her body.

_My sons, my children_. She doesn’t wait for them to stop their mid-landing before she’s wailing into the arched length of their necks, rocky and scorching scales meeting her shaking hands. Ash, bones, charred skin, _magic_ invades her senses, clasps around her withering body as her nostrils frantically drown in their scent. Drogon coos, nuzzling around a whimpering Rhaegal whose neck she’s engulfed. 

For once in what feels like decades Dany can feel something. It’s so light, almost air-like, cracking through slab of glass-like melancholy that bars her heart, her beating, pulsating heart. It burns the poison out of her veins and coats the raw flesh with warmth, blaming her. 

She wants to ask them a million things and to beg for their forgiveness, tell them how much she wanted to be there for them when she wasn’t. 

_I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry my loves. I didn’t protect you; I didn’t take care of you when you needed it the most._ She’s been so blinded by people, by the poisonous acid of politics that she failed to leave space in her heart and day for them, for the two that matter the most. Her blood, her everything. 

_I’ve missed you,_ she tells them _, oh I’ve missed you two so much._ She can’t stop petting them. And they can’t stop whining for her touch. They hiss for her attention like starved animals, the edges of their great wings curling around her tiny body, shielding her from the world. Rhaegal’s paw takes every drop of her tears onto their skin, their great bodies never letting her touch the cold, frigid ground. 

~

She’s reluctant to get up. The feeling in her legs are almost fully gone by the pressure of them, but she doesn’t truly care. 

Dany smiles down at her son’s resting heads, one entirely covering her body whilst the other curls nearby. She watches their chests expand, rising and falling, soothing like flowers in the field. The rather loud noises escaping their gruff mouths make her giggle, remembering they small whiny voices when they were smaller than her hands. 

Perhaps they never truly did grow up. At least-that’s what Dany wishes would’ve happened anyways. 

Her head lifts up from the reds and green, breathing in the bitterly cold air prickling in her lungs. There’s nothing around them. Not a person or a house in sight. 

She’d quickly taken flight on Drogon’s back, worried of someone attempting to find her and crushing the joy that had just been built. 

From the hill, high above the ground, everything looks so small. The small animals with their thick furs scurrying across the lands are ants, the few trees still standing nothing but mere leaves tumbling on the ground. It’s tranquil. 

The silence cleanses her mind for once, lets her see things a little clearer. Of course, the dread tries to creep into the peace around her. Like a small voice in her head it’s still rings, prods her back in the wrong way every few moments. 

She thinks for once, contemplates. 

There must have been a moment that changed her, there _must_ have been. Sometimes she looks down at her body now, or glances at her reflection and wonders who the person across from her is anymore. All she sees is a frail woman, one that cannot seem to find the strength for anything anymore. She sees a girl whose eyes have died of their dreams, the purples paling and sinking. 

When she thinks hard enough the notion of hatred comes to mind. It’s venom that inflicts everyone in the surrounding. But has Dany not faced worst views of her before? Most of Khal Drogo’s men watched her as if a lamb they want to devour and slaughter all at once. In Qarth, Yunkai, Astapor, Meereen, even Dragonstone, there were many that hissed at the mere mention of her, whispering to the night sky of slitting her throat. Hatred has always been like an elixir for her; every dosage of it only compelling her to work harder, pursue her dreams with ten time more vigor till that hatred either morphed into admiration or become another’s foolish downfall. She taken every spit of venom hurled in her direction and reshaped it into an opportunity. It’s what she learned most clearly from Viserys’s mistakes. When a disgruntled view would come his way, he’d step head-first into its spiraling web, almost killing himself and her in the process. Luckily Illyrio would somehow drag his dim-witted self out before it got too far, but he never learned. 

Dany cultivated his foolish behaviour in favour of her own soon enough. She learned how taking one step into the silky webs of the rich made it easier for them to trip in the game, too occupied by the meaning of her silver hair and purple eyes to deem her any different than the ones who came before. 

Yet, all it feels since she arrived in this dreaded waste of a land is those same webs somehow reaching out and snatching her by the foot, tangling her to her neck in its oily, slippery silk. She should know better by now. _I have!_ she cries defiantly, _I know my mistakes. I am cautious. Yet the comprehension and reconciliation seem to seep out of me with my every waking breath here._

It can’t be the poison, it can’t. She’s learned at a young age which poisons target which portion of the body and how fast, having had to avoid millions of attacks in so-called gracious merchant’s houses. 

Tyrion’s voice come to mind. Tears of Lys, he said. She’d witnessed its full affect first-hand in Pentos once, after an incensed and beady-eyed merchant had come to learn about his maiden wife’s affair with a jewelry vendor, having even apparently spawned a bastard during its course. The moment his lips guzzled down the bottom of the cup, he’d dropped like a brick onto the stony grounds. Headfirst with a harsh and crunchy, _bang_. Dany can still smell the putrid scent of his stomach burning from the inside, the front of his shirt eventually dipping into the now hollow part of his groin. Its only to the body, not the mind, and most certainly not towards the heart. 

There’s something else that irks her even more though. If a cup of poison could do such harm to one grown man, why did it not work on her? Jorah had mentioned it was a small dose -but even then, it takes an incredible amount of care to contrive the exact dosage needed to do harm’s work, but not enough to eliminate the person. How could someone so young, a child, cultivate such knowledge? 

Dany’s stomach flips. What if their motive truly was not to harm even? 

What if the sole purpose of the act was to make her bed-ridden long enough for her power and influence within the castle and its people to wisp away into nothing but dust? It worked, hadn’t it?

But that doesn’t make sense in any sorts. Why would Gawen-or whomever else was partaking in this transgression choose _this_ choice? Killing is so simple, an instant clean slate on the chess board. And it was not like she was making much progress with the winning of Northern houses. They could easily have slit her throat, generated overwhelming protests to push her people out so that not a single speck of Daenerys Stormborn grew its stems in the region. 

So why keep the pest, when its chances of infiltrating and spawning are lacerated with the simple swipe of the head? Why take the risk of small dosages that only are going to be lethal for the slaughterer? 

Dany huffs, frustrated. Its cruel that she has these constant needles prodding at her diminishing will, and even more unfair to be occurring when she’s in the gentlest of all lands this far North. Can she have but a moment of solitude that isn’t paralyzing her with its relentless shaving down of life to its bare and insipid reality? And why is it, that she can’t seem to spend a thoughtless moment without dread blinding her. 

Of course, she goes to the easiest and laziest of answers, the ones that are now whispers in taverns and kitchens throughout the region-seven halls maybe even the country. In her darkest and most insecure of moments the notion seems to become more and more of a reality to the delirious and deprived mind. Every action of her day is recounted and recounted till she’s holding her breath in anticipation for it to finally happen. For the doom to befall her as well. The Targaryen madness. 

It would be so easy if it was true; like accepting the open doors of death. In some ways it would be simple to welcome the fate everyone around seem so hellbent on proving a fact. At least then her misery would end with it, the pity slowly overwhelming the hatred of most. 

Drogon lets out a gruff snort, stifling on the powdery and flying snow that’s attempting to sneak into his nostrils. He blinks the sleepiness out of his eyes as he plops his head back down like a pup, head tilting up towards her. 

“Are you a sleepy boy?” she giggles, thumbing the gradually taller line of horns splitting between his eyes. Drogon huffs, grumbling high-pitched. 

Her head dips back at the sight, shoulders shaking. “Oh, you are, you little pup!”

Rhaegal roars delightfully. Nudging his brother smugly, he steals the chance to lay his head in Dany’s lap again. 

“Rhaegal,” she scolds lightly, “that wasn’t very kind.” But her hand is already petting down his beautiful emerald scales, eyeing her eldest with a grin. 

She can’t remember the last time they so much as sat near each other like this in her recent memory, every single one of them colluded with distress and people. It’s a bitter and regretful sting that settles in her heart as she watches them nuzzle one another. She missed watching them grow, learn, and mourn, too sure of them not relying on her anymore that she forgot that they are still her children above all. 

They’ve brought in so much light in her lifetime, and Dany can’t quite remember ever truly appreciating their pure sweet love, thanking them for choosing her. 

“We could run away, you know?” she murmurs onto the hot scales of her eldest. “Someplace with blue skies and mossy grounds. You two could hunt, while I scout for a small hut.” Dany smiles just at the image. “We’d wake up, eat, and live. No responsibilities. And I could even eventually knit something for the two of you if it gets chilly.” 

Rhaegal’s grunt is enough of an incredulous scoff. The soft speckles of snow tumbling down from the sky melt into a drop on his lamina, making it almost seem like dew drops in the early morning. 

“We could fly across all the lands. Explore the places never witnessed by eyes anywhere else. Can you two even imagine? The clothing, the food, the people…so much. We would be the first Westerosis to have seen every inch of this planet, you know!” 

The thought is so dream-like, like the sweetest wine to ever touch the tongue, that it doesn’t take much contemplation to break its dizzy spell. 

Beautiful sights, beautiful and kind new people, serenity…. they shatter like glass to the reminder of where they are at the moment. What they need to do. 

Dany groans angrily. Why is it her responsibility to be the bigger person her entire life? It seems to her that every avenue she goes down-no matter how much older she becomes- her wishes are always the first to be compromised for the greater good. Dany can’t even recall the last time she did something for purely selfish reasons, not having to spend countless night gnawing over every hypothetical outcome. 

_Oh_. She falters. 

Dany supposes there is once. There wasn’t much she could really do to prevent it anyhow, but it was purely for herself and her being only. The soft candles lit, and gentle sway of the boat are not hard to remember, the brown eyes that accompanied her that night, neither. 

And suddenly he’s back in her mind. 

She thinks of his words. It’s odd -she knows- for Jon Snow is not much a man of words really. Yet somehow it was those same shortfalls of words that snuck their way into her heart first. 

It was the vigor in his words that intrigued her the most on Dragonstone. Most men of such power tend to cry songs of sorrow because they wanted something for her, something to let them climb higher up their privileged towers. So, when he started his statement with that same passion she almost huffed with disappointment until…until he spoke of these so-called white walkers. 

Dany remembers the way her mind suddenly splashed with frigid water, her drooping eyes aware and alert, and most of all intrigued. Intrigued by this man who spoke with so much care about the silliest of myths, and who failed to mention himself even once to the point that his own Hand had to remind them all of his stature. 

And that intrigue only blossomed as his stay on her ancestor’s island morphed from weeks to moons. Like her eyes could not help but follow his movement and gape in amazement of this man who oozed honour through and through his every venture. 

Perhaps if he hadn’t displayed such zeal Dany wouldn’t even be here today. Most likely storming her and her ally’s troops through Black Water Bay and the hills of the Crownlands till the waters and green lands inked with millions of soldiers. Maybe she’d already be sitting on the grand throne. 

Rhaegal’s snout poking into her stomach breaks her attention. “Stop it,” she scolds gently, carefully lugging his hot and wet nose from her now drenched coat. 

But his head persists, letting out a low whine. “Rhaegal.” Now she is looking down at him, wondering what is making him so fussy. “What’s wrong, my love?” She pets his head. And as she does ... the emerald scales beneath her fingers begin trembling. Dany stiffens. 

She lifts herself off his rustling form, now worried. Between the two she frantically looks, realizing with dread that Drogon is as well mewling softly, the web of his wings quivering like leaves. “Rhaegal, what is it?” 

Quickly she jogs around their behemoth bodies, running her fingers to see for some kind of wound or affliction. 

Finding nothing other than flesh and scales she comes around to their front, heart suddenly beating fast. “Rhaegal-Drogon-you’re both scaring me. What-” 

Drogon falls backwards suddenly, tripping onto his hinds’ legs as he bellows out a squealing roar that peels through her ear drums, the air around them exploded into a cloud of snow. Rhaegal quickly follows, whimpering as he seems to grapple with his own body before he roars as well, shaking the very ground beneath them. 

“Why are you-” but Dany’s breath tumbles away as one great wing scoops her up, tossing her like a twig onto Drogon’s back. “Drogon,” she hollers, angered but terrified at once, “you two need to stop acting like children…”

It’s the sound that first enters her body. Like crinkling and broken jagged glass abrading against each other, piercing out a shrill screech. _No._

Her mouth dries, body suddenly colder than it needs to. Instinctively she attempts to grasp Drogon’s horn, the act difficult as he shuffles around anxiously. 

Relentlessly, she is given no time before the first one befalls her vision. There’s a manic nature to the creature, the body of the wight needing to seize just to move. His rotten but frozen bone hold the ripped stripes of chainmail that swing from side to side with his every movement. Slowly…slowly. 

Dany doesn’t allow herself to so much as let out a breath, eyes and body paralyzed as they watch the single undead soldier haul his decayed and decapitated legs and arms across the fresh pile of sparkling snow, the movement of his boney feet dragging an ugly line through its beauty. 

_One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two._ Her beating heart matches the harmonious hissing of his dead joints and bones as he walks. 

_One, two, one, two, one, two._

He’s nearing a valley of thickly crowded trees. So tall are the green and brown ones that perhaps at their tops, one could manage to touch the big blue sky. 

_One two, one two, one, two._

Drogon is quaking with impatience, begging for her to speak. But Dany’s numb body can do little more than painfully track the Wight’s crinkling body with wide eyes. 

_One, two, one, two-_

_One, two, one, two-_

It’s matched with a similar beat behind him, suddenly, so far behind that if the snowy fields were packed with people if would be virtually silent. 

Taller, a little wonkier. This one’s clothes are garbs of thick furs, like the one Dany remembers seeing Jon in, Beyond the Wall. _Free folk._ Its eyes are paler, the colour of the sky if it could rust. A hollow and crusty fissure gaping from his jaw all the way to his eye in the perfect shape of a thick blade lets through a whistle of the blowing winds.

_They’re afraid. They know what’s coming._

_One, two, one two, two two, one, one, one, one-_

“ _Sōvegon_.”

The strangled word barely leaves her mouth before Dany’s jerked up into the sky, the cold air like needles slashing across her face as Drogon wails in fear. She barely feels it as her numb body curls around. 

Mistake. It’s a mistake. 

Dany seizes, the cold numbness of her mouth preventing it from cracking open a petrified bellow. She sees the beat of the first, the one with the chainmail, small, barely but a chime. He’s shadowed by the dead Free Folk one behind him…and then one more…and two more… 

If she silences the ringing of her ears, she can hear it, faster than her heart, more eerie than death itself. It’s not a chime anymore. It’s a symphony. 

_One two, one two, one two._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeee, the next chapter is gonna be a bitch.   
> Thank you for your amazing patience guys, it honestly means so much :'-)

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate (and hopefully better) recreation of season 8.


End file.
